Does Song Compose Heroes?
by Mitya Shostak
Summary: A fox composer gives his account of his place in the struggle between Redwall and the Mtsensk District.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Prologue

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"A thin bespectacled man, not a God,

Awkwardness in his clawing fingers

And his tie sticking out awry,

Looks in confusion, his breath uneven

Like a boy, his eyes downcast.

And he bows so awkwardly,

He hasn't learnt how, that's why he's triumphant now."

–Evgeny Evtushenko

I shouldn't have a part in this. The whole story should have gone on without me, played through over me. I should have seen it, would have seen it, but should have only been able to react from the sidelines. To give a whistle of relief or a cheer at the end. That would be all that's necessary. I could have taken the initiative to document the matter in song–I'm certain I would have. But that product would have certainly sounded differently than what plays through my head now. It would have lacked the feelings that I know now. What I would have had was a summary, fine if I'd only gotten to stay out. Enough for what might have been. But what might have been isn't, though. I can't emphasize enough. Some force decided to pick me up and cast me headlong into that stormy whorl of red and grey, into the situation that somehow left me standing as a titan.

I am hardly conspicuous other than in name. Mossflower and environs, Mtsensk and districts surrounding have their fair share of songwriters, tunemakers, notesmiths. They each have their fair share of foxes, too. Thus I stand, average in height, less in weight, bespectacled, clad simply, manuscript in paw. A generic, maybe less than so. But tag me with my name and I stand out like a beast who's lost his nose and is running around chasing it. Maybe it's something to do with how I came from neither end and was pushed into both at once. All to do with Redwall is documented; all concerning Zlaya was carefully noted. And now they want to hear all to do with me. 

I'd say I've already done my share to memory. Prose be not my strong suite; my testimony to the mess lies, as always, in song. But with that, somebeasts don't get it. I'll be approached, asked to explain what those tones convey. "It's about what the title says," I'll tell. "Listen. It's clear." But they don't catch it, they want to hear more in it. Apparently, ironically, they've not grasped how much music can tell. And so for them, as I must, I clarify. There have been, and there will be many more histories of the downfall of Zlaya Trudnaya's evil. From passers-by, observers, like my mind wishes it was. Might have been interesting to see how it would have played out without me. But as that is not the case, I have the allowance and should take the time to see and show from the inside of one of the greater conflicts in these woods.

This should really need no preface. I should just go and tell. What you've just read is irrelevant to things for the most part. But I do admit, it's not to me, so I wrote it. As I am Mitya Shostak, quite literally of victor's note, I'll give to the conflict between Redwall and Mtsensk the time I before refused to assign it.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

Chapter One

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"I often played music that didn't fit the action."

–DSCH

I think I could have avoided meeting Zlaya. The average musician had his traveling troupe, roaming the countryside and entertaining whoever they found. I had this backwards. I had my little town, where I d always lived. There I'd stay, and when a band of players came to call, I'd approach and ask for the privilege to play keyboard for their performance. An exceedingly pompous hare or show-off squirrel may object to the addition, but in general such arrangements would have no problems. And so I d play, have a good time, meet some wonderful new creatures, maybe even get a little tip. When the troupe left, I'd give them my well wishes down the road and return to my own personal practicing and composition. A traveling troupe rides the winds; I remained rooted. Zlaya did neither.

A ruler will tend not to come out from his palace, as history observes and notes. One contented with the situation of power, be it good or evil. Zlaya was not like this, she was far from content, she was paranoid of risings against her widespread control. I think this was a silly fear; no sane creature would dare defy her. They knew the consequences prison or death. Her guards and soldiers could make no errors in enforcing such. Perhaps she feared, somehow, her subordinates were too stupid. I can testify if that was true that brute strength was all they needed for most. But Zlaya apparently felt she needed to check up on her "all for one and none for all" policy, that nobeast was gaining save herself. So she'd go on outings through her district, each town on agenda.

Traveling players seldom linger long, they're usually on the road between here and wherever. Stop for a show and go. Such a stop was made in my town one autumn, a new group to accompany. At the same time, Zlaya felt a necessity to make one of her own stops. I recall it very well, down to the warm golden sunlight filtering through copper-hued trees and acting as lighting for the show. A hare called Bolt led the troupe; his players were presenting an obvious parody of a vermin horde campaigning. Bolt himself presented a horrible imitation of a stoat warlord, much to the amusement of the crowd. I, less noticeably I'm certain, accompanied with improvised humor on old marching tunes.

The jangling sound I heard at some point I remember down to pitch, but it did not concern me at the time I heard it. One never knows what might be used in a show. The audience continued its roar; Bolt was "disciplining" a sorry soldier in a horrible mix of hare and vermin accents when the sound approached and stopped. I glanced over. A female arctic fox stepped off a bell-adorned cart onto the stage. She wore quasi-military attire, and it seemed somehow unfitting at the time. Cold midwinter blue highlighted her combed ice white fur, obsidian eyes fixed on Bolt. This still didn't match to me. I thought she was part of the troupe. So I kept on playing.

I'm not sure whether or not my course of actions was a good one. I couldn't have helped Bolt even with the hindsight I hold now. My switch to a minor key could have made the intrusion an actual part of the show, if only briefly. If the arctic fox would cooperate. A few sharp words were given to Bolt, and his reaction was out of character. His ears went down flat, he whispered between his teeth, "Tune it down, Mitya, ol' chap!" 

Not louder, I wondered why, but I turned and saw. Actual soldiers had joined Bolt's players, held them while the arctic fox explained. "I don't approve. Such a farce degrades, insults, pokes at something. If you poke hard enough, things break. I can t let you poke. I can go harder."

The hare gulped, the other players did less. The audience and I shared confusion. Briefly again. That came to an end when fear set in. Those beasts poked literally, with spears. I can remember how, but I won't disclose it. I know you'll remember it too, and that would be an unfortunate situation. The end, though, I can tell you. I d not tried to slip away the ones resisting were handed worse problems. I sat at my piano bench, pawing nervously at my glasses. When two sturdy weasels found the sides of the bench, I looked down and occupied myself with a hangclaw. I didn't want to be watching them when they did what they might. I couldn't help but feel them breathing over me; that anticipation was bad enough. I wanted them to get it over with.

Something hissed in my ear, sounded like the drawing of a blade, but it formed words. "You. Fox. They called you Mitya, right?"

Looking down, I confirmed that dumbly.

The blade's edge whisper came again. "Look at me when you answer, tell me your full title."

I looked up then, obediently, saw the arctic fox above me, her actual blade still sheathed. But her words might be arrows on her whims. "They call me Mitya Shostak. I have no title. No real title at all," I stuttered, repeated. "I make music, write songs..."

The two weasel guards snorted and rattled their spears.

"Very well, Shostak. You know me." She stated that. And I did know her. Her identity had become very clear as soon as she showed her intentions on Bolt's players. Zlaya Trudnaya continued: "Very well, then, what were you just playing?"

She meant for the troupe. Clearly. And she didn't like their act, also clearly. She wouldn't like the song, but I told her. I had to. "I was improvising, ma'am. Improvising. No composer." As I look back, I could have called myself that.

"Very well. And you improvise thus often?" 

I nodded. 

"Good. I need a new fanfare, new entertainment. The others are all fraudulent, treacherous, associated with those troupes."

I dared something then, a bit puzzled. "How do you know I'm not?" It was an innocent question, really, but I knew that it could be taken the wrong way the instant I said it. A fortunate thing my voice's intonation carried a clear note of fear. I recall that, too.

"The hare." A simple reply. I shifted on the bench and the guards looked away. Zlaya and I simply looked at each other. Her expression was an odd contortion of amusement, interest, and clear evil intentions. I must have appeared the terrified kit.

Finally, Zlaya sniffed, stamping a footpaw. "Come on then."

The whole situation, turn of events, felt random. I think I could find a better word to describe it, but that is what comes to me now. Just as what came to me then felt very mixed. I gazed upon the horror the makeshift amphitheater had become: the remnants of the audience, the sorry captives the troupe had been branded, the imposing order of the vermin soldiers. I was disgusted, no less than that. I wanted to be out of the scene, I wished I'd been far from even the sidelines. But my paws and legs trudged forward. That may have been fearful obedience to Zlaya's steel presence, but I think my own face would have scared me. My eyes must have been part shut, near glazed from what they'd witness, but my mouth–I remember how that felt–twitched in some involuntary form of a smile.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

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"I don't like to be patted on the head...I like to be treated with respect."

–DSCH

Emotions layer. They may give the impression of dominating one another completely, but they really just surge back and forth like different levels of waves over a sandbar. That's what's happening to me now, as I document this. No experience feels all one way. As Zlaya Trudnaya and her guards led me upon the grounds of Mtsensk, her domain, awe dominated in me. High towers reached toward the skies, capped with dark onion domes. Intricate work of artists and sculptors adorned each corner, were carved on every wall. The great hall I was led to was cavernous, equally decorated; it seemed to echo with something one couldn't actually hear. The grandeur was enough to make me forget I was in a place of evil.

The town where I'd grown up consisted of both what one calls vermin and woodlanders. Our alignment wasn't split–we were all dirt poor together under Zlaya's system. I guess we had something over the other little towns in the district, a certain air of intelligence is what I can describe it best as, though I mean not to degrade other villages. It was by that factor, though, that managed to get me the musical knowledge that brought me to where I was. The lessons were a fortune, as I fondly reflect. At the time, I considered being taken into Zlaya's gilded circle a good fortune. Emotions on the spur of the moment tend to swirl harder and frothier, more confusing and illusional.

I must clarify somewhere that I do not like to be put on display. That is, I like to be noticed when appropriate but never flaunted. For the troupes, I was an aside, I sometimes got a tip, which was good. That's why I'd offer my services, mostly. My general nature is one away from the spotlight. When I followed Zlaya's entourage into Mtsensk, therefore, currents of self consciousness rilled under general awe. Uniformed buglers stationed down the length of the main hall heralded their chief's entrance with a bright martial fanfare. I remember also my own subconscious bubbling on how their blowing wasn't a bad tune, how the meter was something interesting enough to reconsider later. Their intonation could have been improved upon, but there's always something a musician can improve upon in his playing.

Zlaya approached the end of the hall, turning and silencing the buglers with a swift motion of a paw. My subconscious troubled itself momentarily over how that had been a very bad time to stop for phrasing, but my apparent attention–my conscious attention and my eyes considered only Zlaya. She frowned near the point of a snarl upon her buglers before announcing, "You can give your noise a break. I have fresh paws, new notes. I give you Mitya Shostak."

I moved slowly and awkwardly to turn and face them, but I know I was still smiling somewhat. Awe was still holding out against self consciousness. In either, though, I found no voice. I stood, facing the buglers blankly until Zlaya ordered me to, "Come here, young fox. You've been introduced. I know you heard."

I had indeed heard very well, and I looked back at Zlaya to show it. She in turn looked to the side, all she needed to do to indicate a large, expensive-looking piano just off from front and center against the far wall of the hall. I didn't need to ask questions about that. I probably would have been disciplined had I said anything. Approaching the polished wood bench, I stared at it before finally sitting down and running a paw down the keys. I'd never had the chance to play on such an instrument before. I should have sat down and played enthusiastically through every piece I'd ever learned or written, or I should have sat down and improvised until they made me go to bed. But at that point, rather unfortunately, creativity was not especially active.

What could I do, then, with the infamous, all-powerful dictator of every part of the countryside I'd seen to that point standing behind me, breathing down my back, wanting to hear what I could do again? I had to play. Placing both paws on the keyboard then, I started picking out the melody and harmony of the fanfare I'd just heard.

Zlaya hissed almost immediately, placing a paw rather heavily on my shoulder with a clear intention to make me stop playing. "I've brought you here so I don't have to listen to that anymore. Play something else, something different!"

I nodded dumbly, adjusting my spectacles before repositioning paws on the keys. I had to do something different, but still something grand and martial. I couldn't use the bugle call, couldn't use any of the melodies I'd parodied for Bolt's troupe earlier. Blinking down at the keys a few times, I finally brought my paws to play a few loud triads. A simple sequence, stalling for time so I could actually think. Throwing a quick glance back at Zlaya, I read her face as pleased and relaxed a bit, continuing to vary and stray from that strain of chords.

Zlaya knew nothing about music. I discovered that soon enough, almost immediately. To be pleased with the mere beginner's exercise I started out with is something only an unfamiliar ear can accomplish. When I did have idea enough to really start making something from what I was playing, she'd interject at times that made no sense to me. She'd make suggestions that did nothing for the music and often went against any theory a teacher could tell you. But I did it anyway. One can't be too careful when dealing with dictators. I found that out, certainly. I realized soon enough that I was a servant, but I kept trying to play the right notes for Zlaya until the very end of the matter.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

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"One must speak the truth about the past or not at all. It's very hard to reminisce and it's worth doing only in the name of truth."

–DSCH

Memory is a strange thing, very fickle. I recall this incident like it occurred yesterday. My thoughts may be so fresh for that this was only a few seasons ago, but more likely I remember for the significance. Memory gives priority like that. It doesn't give space to the forced beyond a few minutes of recollection. For that reason, I did not retire to my quarters within the walls of Mtsensk the first evening I spent there.

The servitude should have dulled me. The revulsion of it dulls me now, but I did carry some mark of enthusiasm for producing rather effortlessly a fanfare Zlaya Trudnaya approved to be her herald. Through that lack of even forced effort, though, I knew I needed to write the piece down. That and the fantasia on Zlaya's old fanfare that my mind had set itself on developing no matter how unappreciated the end product would surely be. I seldom play my own work anymore, but I could certainly go to a keyboard right now and reproduce the piece for you down to each turn, crescendo, and tenuto. As for Zlaya's new tune, I recall the melody, I can hum it, but for all it's been overplayed I would miss some of the finer details. Which is a fact that doesn't even bother me–an artist knows his work only as much as he wants to.

It was quite late at night when Zlaya finally decided she'd heard enough from me that first day. Upon a short announcement of such, she went directly to her chamber, I'll assume anyway. Other activity in the hall dropped down as well, with the buglers, servants, and vermin officers heading their own ways. Presumably everyone in Mtsensk's day ended when Zlaya's did. Except for mine, then and later. For her ignorance, Zlaya did apparently enjoy music, so I figured there must be some sort of rehearsal room, study, or archive somewhere in the building. Someplace where I could work. Or at least someplace I could find some paper to write on.

Many smaller corridors branch off the main hall of Mtsensk. I stood up from the piano bench and glanced around the room at all of them, completely without direction on which to follow. I probably should have just followed the buglers out, but I'd hesitated enough that they were all gone before I could do so. Finally, I resorted to following the last beast to leave down the corridor across the hall from where I'd been playing. A beast in uniform should know something, even if I'd taken the wrong route.

The corridor was long and dark; torches along the wall illuminated further intricacies of design. I followed quietly, timidly as the officer continued. Or at least as quietly as consciously possible. Everybeast can have his habits. Mine, at the time unfortunately, is to tap my paws against something in a random rhythm or to sometimes whistle. Tapping was noise enough this time; my guide turned around with a snarl. She was a rather large, sturdy rat of clear high rank. Frankly, her forward presence frightened me very much, as did her low-pitched growl of, "Who are you? What order of business allows you in the Officers' Hall?"

I gulped nervously, footpaws shifting on the stone floor. Wrong turn. A mistake. Though saying nothing or turning to leave would have been a bigger one. "Pardon me...I'm a bit lost. No business here, just lost. I'm Mitya, the new musician, Zlaya's new pianist..."

The rat's eyes continued their pressure upon me, but I felt it release a little, as did her fierce expression. Paws moving from an accusatory point to rest on her hips, she grunted and added, "Then I suppose you certainly wouldn't know what was where."

I nodded again, scratching an eartip nervously still. "Zlaya put me to work right away. I've seen the front gate and the main hall. I was told where my quarters are. I've seen nothing else, nothing else at all."

"If you know where your quarters are, what are you looking for then?" The rat's expression assumed a more criticizing aspect again. My own expression remained pathetically helpless as I stood there, my eyes unable to stop flickering to the red and gold insignia on her drab coat. Looking at them, I felt a bit silly. An artist, a musician in a military dictatorship's capital. I was almost ashamed at the time. And so was how I explained. "I was looking for a music room, a study...someplace I could work outside my quarters. Is there one?" My last question was very soft indeed.

The rat sniffed again as she considered my question. She was probably scanning through the long list of rooms in Mtsensk in her mind. Finally, wordlessly, she turned with drill-tuned crispness, moving briskly back down the hall, motioning for me to follow along in an afterthought. We came back to the great hall, only to go (logically) down the corridor beginning right next to the piano. This was as dim as the Officers' Hall; I wondered how a beast could remember which door was which. We did approach a singled out one eventually. From a pocket, the rat produced a ring with many keys on it (all the same, they seemed–memory and distinction again). Selecting one, she unlocked the room with a dry _click_, smoothly opening the door as she extracted the key from the lock.

I peered inside, making use of a lantern to interrupt the pitch black that greeted me. The room smelled old and seldom used; the clutter the light revealed appeared to have not been touched recently. Not in many seasons. This surprised me. For Zlaya's apparent appreciation of music, the facility should have seemed used. I wondered why it wasn't; I hadn't a clue as to why when I was first introduced to the place. I figured perhaps I would have been taken to the well-used buglers' area or something like that. "Here?" I asked, just for confirmation.

The rat nodded, speaking more casually as she set about removing the key to the room from her keyring. "I know it's a bit dark and unkempt, but it's quiet. If anybeast tells you to get out of there–and there's a good chance that'll happen–tell em you have the express permission of Marshal Raikh to be in there. Should be enough." Unceremoniously pressing the key into my paw, she turned and left me to my melodies.

It is with such characters as Marshal Raikh that one must consider whether they're trying to write a history or a narrative tale with suspense and adventure. It's hard to hold up both, as reminiscing mixes up order and sequence of events, as histories can seem so dry and impersonal. The common creature, however, is already fully aware of the outcome of my dealings with Raikh. They don't need another history from someone more personal with this "grand saga." But then again, suspense wouldn't be suspense for those. For you rare reader in Mossflower, then, who knows not what happened, I leave that issue for now as Raikh left me in that dark study. In the dim and dusty room, I had little trouble locating manuscript paper and pen, so I ceased my wondering and quickly applied myself to put to the page my forced notes of the evening.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

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"Illusions die gradually–even when it seems that it happened suddenly, instantaneously, that you wake up one fine day and have no more illusions. It isn't like that at all. The withering away of illusions is a long and dreary process, like a toothache. But you can pull out a tooth. Illusions, dead, continue to rot within us. And stink. And you can't escape them. I carry all of mine around with me."

–DSCH

I've already made clear my opinion of oppressed servitude, my utter revulsion at the mere mention of it. I've already gone on for possibly longer on my initial pleasure at my forced position. I can assume that any reader would cease bothering with this chronicle if I were to elaborate further on either of those. I do not, therefore, need to explain much when I say that, before much longer, my opinion of being Zlaya's Court Composer began to drift rather dramatically and swiftly toward my opinion of a servant's life. My title was a mask over true meaning, the real situation. Evil dictators will pull stunts like that on an innocent beast like I was.

Perhaps I should make an attempt to describe the monotony, in an effort to transfer a bit of the feeling. Not to harm anyone, though. Rather, to clarify. To experience is to learn best. Just to say I was bored, I think, would do nothing. My typical day consisted mostly of empty time. Though not empty time in which I could do anything worthwhile. I was to always be ready, should Zlaya's whim fall upon the concept of a little music. And then I'd play for her, as long as I didn't hear the word "stop." Generally, that was a decent length of time, or rather indecent in the circumstances. Earlier in my time, I would spend most of those sessions improvising; whenever my melody became a bit too arhythmic or inharmonic–off the beaten musical standard–Zlaya would be right behind me with her untrained, uncreative criticism. Later on, I played more of what I'd already written to Zlaya's specification.

I wrote down my melodies for my own sake more than that of others that early in my stay at Mtsensk. Indeed, there was no comprehension of written music from Zlaya or Raikh–the only two I'd really had spoken contact with–or from any passers down the hall. They saw funny black dots on lined paper. But as I also said before, I remember only what I want to among things so numerous as musical ideas, and anything I developed for Zlaya's benefit was not among that group of works. So it was written down. My taste differed much from the Dictator's–those irregular tonalities she'd rush so to "correct" were more to my fancy than the straight and strict melodic genre. I have nothing against such pieces, don't get me wrong, but they're not my distinctive style. I feel no need after the fact of my contact with Zlaya to contribute any more to that set, the set Zlaya held the illusion for as the only real music. So I wrote down the ideas that were a venture, so to speak. Also for my benefit, initially mine alone.

After the day's monitored musical monotony, I would retire to the little room Raikh had showed me in order to do my real work. I became used to the dim disorder of the place rather quickly, even taking a few minutes on occasion to straighten a few things on the desk I'd appropriated. It was indeed a very quiet place to work. I find I don't necessarily need quiet to produce a piece, but it is a welcome thing whenever possible. So welcome that I quickly became disconcerned by how forgotten the room was. The almost eerie neglectedness gave way to a feeling of intense security, a sense much stronger than I had in my own assigned quarters. My quarters did not have lock and key.

Security is another one of those funny things that seems to come and go. Initially, I would bring all my work back to my quarters, under the impression they were the safest place around. I'd hide my manuscripts, seemingly ashamed of my own creativity. A perfectly pathetic image of a scrawny little fox with tousled fur and crooked spectacles trying in vain to hide something. Well, not really in vain, but images can carry themselves away. Upon a few weeks, my image of the old music room clarified; I started leaving unfinished sketches and scores in there and, not as a surprise, finding them just as they'd been left the night before. Security. Which eventually lulled me into an impression of even greater safety. One night, I was so bold as to go about my personal composition with the door about halfway open, light from the still-dim hallway managing to provide greater illumination after all.

At this turning point, pardon my miscellany, I feel a need to bring up Murfree the hedgehog, whose life was plagued by every possible absurd misfortune. What can go wrong will go wrong, he stated. Wise creature, I wrote a song about him...But anyway, what came to pass that particular evening wasn't particularly something gone wrong. The immense shadow first present in the added light from the hall, however, was alarming enough to make me immediately think the worst.

I said nothing, sat rustling my papers with one paw and adjusting my spectacles with the other as the shadow was followed by the bulky muzzle and shaggy head of a large grey wolf. He wasn't in the uniform of a Mtsensk soldier; his expression was clearly not one of ferocity but of surprise. Surely not as surprised as I was. "Hallo?" he called in a deep, warm voice.

I stared at him, continuing to fidget as I squeaked out what I'd been told to say: "I have Marshal Raikh's express permission to be here, you know. Express permission."

Drawing a lantern up to his eye level as he further advanced into the room, the wolf's raised eyebrows became apparent. "Raikh?" His tone was almost amused now."That's interesting." He was clearly outgoing and friendly, but I knew nothing of his alignment at the time, and so I still trembled. He advanced further, holding the lantern over my desk. "How'd you manage to get that from her?"

It was an innocent question, as I found out, but he could have very well been working for Zlaya. In which case, if I made a story up, I'd just get in trouble. If the wolf was truly a friend, I would get sympathy. "She showed me here, you know. Showed me. I asked for a place to work, and she showed me. Just a place to work, not special, is it? Not special..."

As I stuttered, the wolf had picked up and was examining one of my compositions, one of the ones Zlaya would surely have nothing to do with. "You'd be surprised...I see the affair's been hidden well," he said, glancing upwards. "Though from what I'd gather this'll sound like," he indicated my manuscript, "I have to be surprised again."

So the wolf knew Zlaya's taste in tones. "That's not going to be performed, you know. Not at all," I explained. "That's my free time, the other stuff's different, so to speak. Different. You've probably heard it around, probably. Heard me play, probably. I'm Zlaya's new musician, you know. Still new, very new..."

I said quite a bit, though still softly with little confidence. Somehow, the wolf seemed thrilled anyway. Setting down the paper, he seized my paw enthusiastically, unintentionally sending my spectacles flying across the desk as he shook it. "Wonderful, then! That is wonderful! And they call you?"

Squinting madly, I felt around the desk, recovering and replacing the spectacles on my face before answering bewilderedly, though no longer in terror. "I'm Mitya, you know. Mitya Shostak."

"Wonderful! Well met, Mitya! I'm Volklov Varzar, not as infamous as before..."

I was was a bit confused at his self-given proclamation of infamy; I was going to ask him what he meant if he hadn't suddenly released his grip on my paw, falling significantly more serious as he remarked, "If you're new, that's why you don't know."

"Don't know?" That was my question instead.

Volklov nodded. "This room actually is, as you put it, special. It is the music study, or it was until Zlaya came down with Classic Dictatorial Paranoia. You know her tastes, don't you? Of course you do. Music more like what you have, more creative and variable stuff used to be played. Until she got the impression the music was mocking her. Of course it wasn't, but Zlaya Trudnaya's word goes. The other stuff was banned, she'd hear only marches and praise. Violators, well, got punishments unworthy of an art form. But I won't go into that. Anyway, this room was also the archive. If you look around, I think you'll still find some parts in here. Supposedly locked away. Though with your key..."

Volklov's voice trailed off almost absently on his last string of thought as I continued to stare, still fidgeting and horrified. "How did _you _hear of this, then? How?" I had to wonder, if the issue had supposedly been concealed from common knowledge.

Regarding me again, Volklov's amber eyes softened further, as did his voice. "I held a variant on your place. I led her band, until almost our entire repertoire was banned." He gave a short heavy chuckle at the homonym.

"I'm sorry. Very sorry." My condolences for the apparently long dead.

"No, don't apologize," Volklov retorted, brightening again suddenly. "You've made it better. You have a key to this room, and I'll bet that with it, I can bring the old pieces back somewhere. Your new ones, too!"

With that offer from a new, immediate, extremely outgoing friend, my true fortunes that doubled as more sincere troubles found their beginnings.


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

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"Well, my friends, it's up to you; I am behind you like a stone wall."

–DSCH

They say that what you don't know can't hurt you. They say that ignorance is bliss. Well that's true enough for a free beast and an innocent one. But there are really precious few of those in the world. Perhaps my being a servant made me guilty of something, but that matters not. My point is that I was hurting enough while knowing nothing beyond my own direct situation. So what could a little more pain be if something could be gained before the impact was felt? Pride comes before a fall, they'll also tell you. I hate those cliches, they seldom apply. But for that last one, one of those rare times. When you know more, so much more becomes clear to you, you can do so much more. Pride and personal success–or success of art–can be magnified. But tied in, almost in a law or equation, the fall afterwards will hurt more. I can assure you I'll come to that part, dwell long enough on it, spend much more time on my hurts later on. And so for now, I drop it in words. I'll never drop it mentally, but that needn't affect you.

The creature that threw open the window in my study, so to speak, was, of course, Volklov Varzar. We met daily in the old music room to discuss the programs of "forbidden" concerts. I would look at the old things Volklov recovered from the dusty shelves; he would glance over and comment on my creations, sometimes as soon as the ink was literally wet on the page. And then he'd immediately program the piece into a set of others, based on themes of title or tonality. He came up with many themes; we determined enough programs to run a concert series a season long. At least. But for our planning, I felt it necessary to express a fact that had been obvious to me, if not to the big enthusiastic wolf. "You know, they'll never let any of this be played. There's nobody to play it, and nowhere. If we could, if there was, they'd still never let it be played."

Volklov looked up at me from his own scribbling, face a mask of exaggerated tragedy. "Really?" And he suddenly snapped to his normal expression of good humor, amber eyes twinkling something mischievous. "That's what you think."

When he said that, I was thinking he was going to get us both killed.

There were many things forbidden to do in Mtsensk. Leaving the grounds was one of them. True, once you performed the act you weren't in Mtsensk anymore and the rules were gone, but the act of crossing the gate could be controlled; that should have been the deed listed as wrong. Either definition you choose, Volklov Varzar blatantly dragged me into violating it. If one wants details, our being in the old music room was against Zlaya's rules as well, so what's another sin? The two were tied together, you could almost call them the same.

I was led rather blindly through the back halls of Mtsensk and out. I don't recall where we left from or how we got out. It was dark, we were moving quickly. I could also tell you nothing more of what route Volklov had in mind, other than it was pitch black in night, wooded, and the travel along it was swift. I would liken it to a night escape to freedom like one reads about in stories, except that we eventually returned to where we came from. And the route was little clearer to me, even in light.

Ah, I'm getting ahead of myself, or I'm running away from the storyline itself. It may seem like another long tangent to go on when I say I'm not the most physically fit creature in the woods, but in fact it's more relevant. A beast who sits and plays or writes music all day cannot be expected to be very fit. I'm scrawny, my breath runs out quickly. I don't know, to tell you the truth, how Volklov's breath didn't leave him as he made me follow at an uncomfortably swift pace for no less than five miles. Perhaps that was the nature and physique of his species assisting. My species must have no such aid, for the instant I was forced stumbling through the door of a small building, I literally collapsed on the floor and fell immediately asleep.

The amount of light in the morning woke me, and I immediately knew I wasn't in Mtsensk. There was a window in my room there, but it was small, it didn't let in nearly as much light as hit me that morning. Light is generally associated with good things, but I felt worried at that conspicuous reminder of a broken rule. It was still very early in the morning, though, and so my concern was a drowsy one. The instinct to make myself presentable in the morning rode over it, as I stumbled down another well-windowlit hall to eventually come to a lavatory. Splashing water onto one's face is generally an effective way to wake up, but peering down into the tub that morning proved an even better way before I even wet my paws. Lazily swishing in what was undoubtedly the washtub were two large, unattractive fish. I need not tell you they startled me, though I cannot quite write my actual recollection of the feeling again. There is no word, I'm positive, to describe how it feels to be staring two fish in the face upon just waking up. Alarm only begins to cover it, but I darted out of the lavatory in a state of that, down the hall to halt abruptly. Standing before me were Volklov and two big otters, not at all helping my state of mind. "What have you got in there?" I panted.

The slightly smaller of the two otters, who appeared to have a large scar on the left side of his neck, knew exactly what I was referring to. "Oh, that's our aquarium," he explained with a grin.

The other otter and Volklov grinned simultaneously, as if the first was a conductor cuing them. "Mitya, I'd like you to meet Venyamin and Evgeny Sobareka." Volklov indicated with a broad sweep of his paw before returning to his broad grin.

I gazed back at him, still appearing disconcerted, I'm sure. "You're telling me this why? Why are we here?"

Volklov's expression snapped from a grin to something less frozen, as it was so prone to do. "No, I guess you don't know about them, do you? If you didn't know about what happened at Mtsensk...akh. I'm sorry. Evgeny here's a singer, and Venyamin's a world-class violinist. Zlaya's decree's holding them back, too."

"Volklov showed us some of yer manuscripts, Mitya," Venyamin, the smaller of the two otters, told me, patting a pile of papers on the table behind him. Although I didn't consider it then, it occurred to me later that the mark on his neck was not a scar but a callous from his violin rubbing against it when he played. 

Evgeny's distinguishing characteristic was his musical voice, demonstrated to me when he said, "If y' don't mind, we'd like to bring this into our musical circle." 

I immediately thought I'd like to write a set of songs for his voice range, but that was more of a reflex thought. Those happen to all composers, I think. More on the matter, I actually told him, "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." And I repeated the phrase convulsively.

"We'll be able to get your pieces played, matey. There's enough of us under other occupations to make an orchestra, an' a large one at that. Granted y'may not hear the concert y'self, an' I'm sorry about that, but your music'll be played in places hopef'lly beyond wherever Zlaya'll stretch er clutches."

Evgeny seemed quite pleased about his organization, but I still had my doubts and concerns. I knew about places beyond where I'd actually been, but I wasn't quite sure where Zlaya's holdings ended and the free world began. I think that if I'd asked someone with the authority to know exactly that, Zlaya would have taken a hint–Oh, new territory! Let's go and conquer it!

"Places hopefully _well_ beyond," Venyamin supplied. "Places like Ruddaring, the Western Plains, Southsward, Redwall."

"Redwall?" I'd heard of the place only in stories at that point. I'm sure that may shock you, but distances can be large and well closed off under a dictator.

"I hope you don't mind my offering your music up like that." Volklov moved from between Evgeny and Venyamin to my side. "I just knew that it needed to be played. Redwall's a good place for that. You may not get to hear the concert, I repeat, but appreciative beasts will. These fellows have pulled concerts like that for other composers. And the Redwallers have always wanted to meet the composer. They'll want to meet you. I hope you don't mind missing that fame..."

"I don't mind, you know. I don't mind at all." The concept of a large crowd rendering me famous made me nervous. It still does; I still try to slip out of concerts as soon as I can to avoid that. "Just so long as they do hear the music, just so long as they do." That mattered, matters much more to me.

"Wonderful!" I don't recall whether it was Evgeny, Venyamin, or Volklov who made the exclamation (nor are any other quotes in dialogue exact), but I understand they felt unanimously.

"And so Zlaya sees, suspects nothing," I added, glancing out the window at the still-increasing daylight. "She has to find out nothing." My glance turned to Volklov then. I hoped he knew the time as well as I did. The odds were good that Zlaya would find something out before any concert could be organized if we stayed out longer. I think about it now and my feeling of dread returns.

Volklov was always good at catching on to things. A fortunate attribute, as he announced our departure. "Mitya has a point there, and a good one. We should take it. He'd be on call at two places, then, Redwall and Zlaya's hall at Mtsensk."

"But aren't you goin' to stay for brunch?" Venyamin inquired with a wink in my direction. "We're havin' fish!"

Volklov and I made our exit, and he once again pulled me down a landmark-barren green trail. My immediate concentration at that speed was on breathing, but I still felt jittery about leaving the whole fragile issue to the Sobareka brothers. It was not that I distrusted them; they seemed very steadfast. It was Zlaya, as always, that worried me.

We returned to Mtsensk's interior from the side, as if we'd been simply strolling the grounds. Only to be met by Marshal Raikh, who did not help my breathless discombobluation. "Nobody knows anything now; go and play, Shostak." 

My unpleasant interpretation of the rat's words forced me to play only the happiest of obnoxious little pieces that evening. It's amazing what fear can produce. I never want to hear those pieces again.


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

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"In him, there are great contradictions. In him, one quality obliterates the other. It is conflict in the highest degree. It is almost a catastrophe."

–Mikhail Zoshchenko

It may disgust you when I say that Zlaya Trudnaya's dictatorial urge to expand territory actually helped me. I'm disgusted, too–that's no lie–but the fact of the matter is, well, that it's true. History shows us that whenever there's any sort of stronghold not under Given Dictator's control, Given Dictator will, naturally, want to make that stronghold his. I'd been informed of many such places by the Sobareka brothers, Redwall being the most prominent of them. When Zlaya wanted to expand her borders, she didn't just go and attack. That's too much effort; it won't get a place to easily "share its wealth with the whole district," so to speak. Zlaya sent "ambassadors" first, usually armed anyway. I remember their coming to my town when I was only a kit. They only came to negotiate; they hurt nobeast but made everybeast uneasy. And then, later, more solders came back and seized the town.

Marshal Raikh had been put in charge of the party of "ambassadors" to Redwall. That's logical, since her position held her in charge of Mtsensk's military's field operations. I think, perhaps, that Zlaya should be given one more point for making that appointment. You'd expect, as I would, that the Marshal would select only military beasts for her expedition, but there she was at my personal quarters one night, late. I came upon her there after finishing my work in the study. I knew she knew I'd been there, and that's why I'd though Zlaya had found out. Before, she'd let well enough alone. Not pleased at the intrusion, I greeted politely anyway: "Good evening, Marshal Raikh."

The Marshal never was one for much needless speech; she did not return the greeting but rather asked immediately, "Mitya Shostak, are you at all interested in going to Redwall?"

I should clarify I've made a jump in time here, for the purpose of cutting the monotony of the everyday and keeping up the action, so to speak. My visit to Evgeny and Venyamin Sobareka had been weeks ago, and I'd put it further back in my mind. But I'd not forgotten.

"Redwall?"

"Yes. You know, Redwall, sandstone abbey southwest of here, in Mossflower woods." Raikh was very measured in her talk, militant as her motions. "I'm to take a group there, and I figured you might want to come." I do recall, though, that her eyes lacked their usual hard edge when she said those words.

I'm going to make another jump now, ahead past the rest of the conversation and the journey. It could be declared a given that I chose to go along to Redwall; I would have gone anywhere, let alone there, to get away from Mtsensk, concert or not. In effect, I hadn't quite escaped for the number of soldiers in our party, but feelings of ease were more likely the further away Zlaya was. She was the driving force of Mtsensk's power and fearsomeness– another given.

I'll speculate on luck again now, for what might have been random chance set the date of the concert and the date of our arrival at Redwall to be the same. More likely there were creatures behind it–Volklov, Evgeny, Venyamin. They were all there at the abbey as well, not by chance. Perhaps the luck and chance should come in that the "expedition," so to speak, was indeed to Redwall and not somewhere else. Though you could also say that Zlaya was behind that. An odd thing to thank her again. I should, but I can't earnestly bring myself to.

If my first view of Mtsensk's grand deceptive beauty had taken the breath from me, Redwall had a different impact. The red sandstone structure was simpler, almost homely, but homey too, comfortable, cloaked in a soft haze of surrealty. Losing your breath leaves you cold; Redwall's state of merely being warmed some of the space inside me that Mtsensk had emptied.

The hedgehog walltop guard frowned upon the soldiers, but Raikh held them back from reacting, approaching the gate then and exchanging a few words with the guard. Either Raikh knew something in the likeness of a key, or this guard was extraordinarily stupid. Or this guard also knew something of a shield. The soldiers were made to set aside their regulation weapons, but they were allowed through the gate after that. I despised their company, though they had brought me as far as Redwall.I kept up the rear, or rather held back from it as far as I could. The Redwallers were assembled at a table in their Great Hall, enjoying a feast that would be too much of a divergence from my point to describe in detail. I saw, I felt the contempt in their stares as we entered, contempt that was, I think, directed at the true vermin of Mtsensk. And was associating me with them. After a hesitant gesture from the hedgehog, the group of soldiers stiffly seated itself, Raikh further down from their main body. I made an effort to sit not only as far away from them as possible, but in the middle of a cluster of beasts including Evgeny and Venyamin. If a positive image of me was going to come up, they more than any other beasts could initiate it.

Looking back over this draft so far, I think I've portrayed myself as a gloomy, paranoid, pessimist. That's not true, though much of my sense of humor was beaten out of me, so to speak. I can't look at an unpleasant event without writing with a darker edge. I'm more than capable of being in a good mood when the situation permits. The trip to Redwall really was a very permitting situation. After a few minutes of terse introductory conversation and a bit of food, I relaxed more suitably to the merry surroundings. I spoke more, though with my usual stutter, even joking an laughing as if among very old friends. I was pleased to notice that the Redwallers fell to an easier attitude with me, despite my notorious species. That eased me further, in return. To keep a tally, another point for the Redwallers and a reason to perhaps take one back from Zlaya.

I've mentioned, also, how feelings can switch in an instant. I've mentioned it before because it happens often. Often with just a few words, even from a trusted friend. From another seat at the table, Volklov stood and approached the end of the hall, pausing in front of a configuration of chairs that was rapidly filling with creatures that were clearly musicians. The whole affair was awkward, really, but not as awkward on the whole as I was, contained in my own little chair. My appetite left me, I felt like I'd already eaten far too much as the wolf beamingly announced "...the premiere concert of works of Mitya Shostak, supposedly of Mtsensk."

The orchestra and the audience chuckled at the "supposedly," or that's how it seemed; the soldiers from Mtsensk bristled at that clear slander of their fortress. I said nothing, the foremost cause being my physical dizziness from nervousness. I kept my head down between my legs until the first note sounded.

The thrill of hearing something you've composed is indescribable. Granted, you hear it in your head as you put it to paper, but it sounds different in the medium of a real orchestra, perhaps as a creature's voice sounds different to other creatures than it does to him. I listened intently, leaning forward and staring almost glaze-eyed through my wavering spectacles. They wavered for my unconscious fidgeting; my footpaws tapped the floor lightly in the rhythm I knew all too well yet was only first experiencing. I think I can picture what I looked like, though my mental criticisms of the playing are clearer to recollect. Criticism of all things musical comes as a reflex to composers. The playing was not flawless, but it was still my music. I can't try to expect perfection.

When the music ended, I, also as a reflex, fell still, breathing heavily and in wonder, not unlike a dibbun getting a gift on Nameday or a birthday. The awe, I mean, not the loud energy. The internal thrill. I still paid only slow attention with my eyes and ears, oblivious to the thunderous applause and belatedly noticing with alarm Volklov's paw extended in my direction.

"Go on up, Mitya! They loved it, they love you! They want to see you! Go up there!" Evgeny boosted me forward verbally and with a shove of his paw. I think he was awed as well. 

I stumbled up, forward on shaky legs to join Volklov on the conductor's podium. The Redwallers cheered loud enough that it would have outdone the loudest dynamic at the climax of any of the pieces they'd just heard. They shouted my name, over and over; I don't recall nor imagine it will happen again that I heard my name so loud and so many times at once. I hated the shouts and the ecstatic stares, though I was grateful for the feelings they represented. It just felt unnatural to be that much of a center of attention. At Volklov's whispered suggestion, I bowed awkwardly, shakily, many times, unpracticed. I'd never bowed before then; I still bow like that now. Maybe it's reflex modesty again. Concerts are to display music, not people. They should cheer the music alone and leave the composer to simply write more of it.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

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"It's a professional disease, an addiction to notes. The brain finds sustenance in any combination of sounds. It works constantly, performing various composerly operations."

–DSCH

The Creative Process is a very interesting thing. I employ it often–an understatement, yet I still don't completely understand it. Or at least how others apply it. Somebeasts lay out sketch after sketch, draft after draft, like a blueprint for a building intended to last uncountable seasons. I don't see why they bother. Often, the end product is woeful, worthless. It's not played, not because it's banned but because nobeast feels a need to play or hear it. I work differently, I just sit and write everything down in full score, vertically down the staff, measure to measure. There's no real planning, so to speak. No physical sketches, though I usually plan in my mind. I'll image the whole thing before I write a single note on paper.

Sometimes, there is a topic or thought to compose on. Sometimes there is a story you simply must orchestrate. And sometimes the idea for an entire piece materializes from thin air or very swift imagination. Sometimes circumstances hold a large part. The mind of a composer never shuts off, criticizing and creating. A reflex. Even right after a concert. After my concert at Redwall, I wanted more than anything to escape the overwhelming appreciation the Redwallers heaped on me. I wanted someplace to sit and recover and collect my thoughts. Someplace, above all, quiet. I can compose most anywhere, through most any noise. The quiet was for my nerves.

I managed to slip out of the ecstatic crowd only after much time and effort. One might say that the crowd actually helped me get out; in the knot of bustling Redwallers, one creature slipping away could hardly be noticed. I emerged, though, to a place from which I had no direction. So therefore I stood near the door for a considerable amount of time, as if something was going to happen so I would suddenly know where to go. Sense of direction does not come spontaneously like creative inspiration might.

Volklov saved me again, so to speak. He knew me very well; it had been fairly obvious to everyone that I was uncomfortable. After some time, he too squeezed out of the crowd, a frail-looking old mouse beside him. Both were positively beaming, though Volklov was able to sympathetically throw an arm around my shoulders and remark, "Here we go, Mitya, we'll get you someplace quiet." 

The mouse was the Abbey's Recorder, his name slips my mind at the moment. He was pleased to the point of trembling–it was a motion not unlike my own nervous tremors. He also babbled incessant praise, a welcome sentiment that was obnoxious in magnitude nevertheless. I tolerated it with polite nods and such. I'd sooner find quiet through tolerance. Further, I would certainly have made the wrong impression on the old fellow by requesting his quiet–modesty or simple dislike for much noise wouldn't have come across. I'd seem, simply, cold against the recorder's praise. Incorrect interpretations can cause ruin, I can solidly testify.

Redwall Abbey's gatehouse, as you probably know already, is also the archives and the Recorder's study. Volklov knew I liked places like that; he must have talked to the Recorder beforehand, since that was where I was led and left. The study was mine to use for the night and up to when Raikh had to take me back to Mtsensk the next day. I probably could have hidden in there longer and perhaps escaped returning just then, but I would have eventually been found out and gotten into even greater trouble.

In addition to attending any concerts I can manage to get to, I've always taken the advantage to read whatever printed material I can get my paws on. Granted there wasn't very much of any interest at Mtsensk, but the Redwall archives held enough to keep me in that room more than long enough to hide, had I wanted to. Naturally, I had to consider what to look at first. Many of the scrolls I looked at were simply records of recent feasts or the quasi-philosophic ramblings of the current Recorder and former ones. All right to look at, examples of a simpler, more peaceful existence than I'd ever known. It was almost enviable, but I got drawn away from those papers quickly.

I have always felt very drawn in by old things, and I can't quite describe why. The past reverberates, not unlike the soft but very present beat of a low-pitched drum. That's a device I've tried to imitate, but though music can do so much more than words, even it is often not fully complete on issues like that. The stories contained in the old volumes, though, are a different matter. I became immersed in the old records of invaders and heroes, chivalry, combat, riddle and rhyme. It was all confusion, I'm certain, to those who were there. I imagine I too would have been lost in the problems had I been there, though they could hardly be compared to the problems I've had since. In hindsight and yet in first discovery of those stories and scrolls, though, I heard them. I heard the valiance, oppression, despair, and victory. Even before I actually knew much of it myself. Hindsight and foreshadowing, fancy that.

I come back now, full circle, to the Creative Process. They say the Creative Process is more work than inspiration. I think they left out decision, the kind you're faced with when potential inspiration is plainly overstimulating. Even then, that definition may not be accurate. One might say that, for some people, long consideration is also a great factor. That s not true for me. When I'm stuck or overstimulated, I don't get up and pace the grounds, looking at the knot from all different mental angles. I make up my mind that I'm going to, well, make up my mind, so to speak. If that process goes on too long, I sleep on it. A creature's dreams focus on what he wants, so the process doesn't end there.

I normally feel uneasy about describing dreams, the ones I remember, that is. They're vivid, realistic, and disturbingly depressing. I've become good at concealing my dreams sometimes, they're dangerous as well. This one was after I told it at first, but that's subsided. I can tell it again now. I dreamed I was at an opera, a world premiere. I'd never heard the music before, but I knew it well. I knew it was mine, though I had no recollection of ever writing it. I knew the story being depicted on the stage; it was, naturally, one of the ones I'd read before going to bed. The stage, though, seemed more like the reality of Mossflower Woods; the actors were too convincing to be only that.

You know the story well, I'm certain. Most creatures do, if not before my take on it, almost certainly afterwards. It was still quite new to me when I dreamed, but it felt familiar, like my unwritten music being played. I felt like I knew personally the hard-eyed mouse with his midwinter blade, the character shaping up to be the lead and hero. He sang me the libretto; it felt to be coming as much from him as from me when I wrote it down later. The words sung by the tyrannical wildcat empress also felt more based in familiarity then just legend. 

I sat in a private box by that dreamcast stage and watched the whole opera. When it ended, I was called to the stage like at the real Redwall, and I bowed in the same way, nervously and uncertainly. I was near the edge of the stage, and I felt like I might fall off into the orchestra pit. That must seem a trivial detail to remember, especially in comparison to the rest of the dream, but it actually comes forward more lucidly now that circumstance has explained it.

I awoke before the applause ended and looked out the gatehouse window at the subtle yellow of pending sunrise. It was very early, but I wasn't tired. It's generally hard to feel exhilarated that early in the morning–how odd! Creatures tend to channel exhilaration into physical activity. I set mine to transcription. Not composition–I'd already heard the music. For my intense work on the opera, I served mainly as a mere copyist, so to speak. My subconscious was the composer, but in most of my waking time after that dream, I wrote down what I'd heard in perfect orchestral complexity. The story would come alive to others, even though it took more life from me.


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight  
  
"From the very first moment of the opera the listener is flabbergasted by the deliberately dissonant, muddled stream of sounds. Snatches of melody, embryos of a musical phrase drown, struggle free, and disappear again in the din, the grinding, the squealing. To follow this 'music' is difficult, to remember it is impossible..."  
  
—Pravda, 28 January, 1936  
  
It wasn't until very recently that I got to actually experience my opera Broken-Sword Warrior in a waking state and a safe one. I had to wait until the problems with Zlaya were through, and then further still for another group to perform it. I'd expected I wouldn't hear it right away. As I may have already said, I worked intensely on the opera at Redwall, literally on the ride back to Mtsensk, and then secretly by nights in the old study until I was finished. It took me a great deal of time, not for straining memory, but for sheer length and intensity of the work. I lost much sleep trying to complete such a large project while still supplying enough "official" pieces to keep Zlaya content. Actually, I did start producing less in that genre, and at the time, I thought perhaps she was a little crabby, so to speak. That aura got worse later.  
  
To the point again, I knew very well I wouldn't get to hear my opera. I recognized my own tone patterns as the type that were banned in the Mtsensk district. Loyal Volklov once again took that risk to get the papers out of the district once they were complete. I'll assume that he, as before, delivered the parts to Evgeny and Venyamin, letting them run their organization also as before. I know for a solid fact, I found out unfortunately, you know, that the production made its way back to Redwall and enjoyed several performances. But as I was only at Redwall mostly by chance for my last such premiere, I didn't expect another such opportunity to go; I even less expected a correlation between that hypothetical visit and the performance dates. And so I was content to let my chance to hear the work again be held off indefinitely. Thoughts of the opera once it was done, I must say, dwindled as I took up new projects. As it were, I would have stayed so disconcerned if other concern hadn't surfaced.  
  
As for the other effects of my Redwall visit, I'm not certain. I know there was supposed to be some sort of "negotiation" between Marshal Raikh and the Abbot of Redwall. As it were, I saw nothing of the negotiations, nor anything in the form of a result. One might say that, for what I saw, the trip had no political intentions and was actually made for the purpose of a concert. Not very far off for me, anyway, but that facade was less such than I initially realized.  
  
Even after I was done with Broken-Sword Warrior and Volklov had spirited the music away, the essence of Redwall lingered with me. I only spent not even two days there, you know, and they were remarkably closed in ones, to think of it. I was either engulfed in nervous anticipation, walled in by a pulsing mob of cheering woodlanders, or holed away in the gatehouse. Closed off, so to speak, but not in comparison to Mtsensk. You can leave Redwall if you want to when you want to, you're not confined by lawpapers there, you can write, compose, draw whatever you want. There's no fear of what creatures call "messing up," and the concept of being whipped and dragged away for it is simply inconceivable. No, I didn't experience that freedom, but it was there in the very atmosphere. I could feel it. It was a wonderful feeling, but an unfair one, unfair in that I couldn't stay there. Even my dear old town, from which I'd been dragged long ago by then, had held the subtle stifling pressure in the air from Mtsensk's looming paw.  
  
I wrote more songs about Redwall; there was no way I could just stop after Broken-Sword Warrior. Songs that were reconsiderations of Recorders' logs, impressions of the life I'd witnessed, and, of course, reflections and fantasies of longing for that elusive yet expansive feeling of freedom. When I found out later that Zlaya herself was paying a visit to the Abbey, my music took on tonalities of fear, so to speak. Hopes that the likes of Zlaya Trudnaya would not pollute the pristine centers of the free world.  
  
You can add fear to that list of strange things; to the lineup of the unpredictable and quirky, not to mention treacherous. Many a creature has logical fears, of death and battle and blood, of imprisonment, pain, loss. There's a great long list of those also. Another common complaint of the old and young is the deranged phantoms of nightmare. Those come in almost any package, the embodiment of a term on that list of fears. One might say that I'm a very fortunate one to be dulled to so many of those problems; the circumstance as to how that came about is less than comfortable, though. My life brought the physical realities of many of those fears, often enough to blur my figurative vision as to their real pure horrors. Nights were when I found most satisfaction and joy, locked away in a more liberating confined room, writing whatever I wanted to write. And so I'm taken care of for the common plague of fears and nightmares. But as no life can really be free—mine was, clearly, not—there have to be problems.  
  
To most creatures, sunrise is a gentle hour, of reflection on nature's beauty. Or of sleep. My sunrises, however, will always be bothered by one black streak of cloud, set in place one morning a very good length of time after Broken-Sword Warrior had been left to Redwall's care. I was asleep, as intended by nature, or rather in that half-state between slumber and wakefulness. To be rudely thrown from the bed, so to speak, by three knocks on the door, loud, sharp, and very purposeful. I waited, hoping perhaps the knocks had been in rare nightmare, but they came again in the same hard sequence. I still hear the echo, it still terrifies me.  
  
Agitatedly slipping on real clothes and placing my spectacles on my face, I stumbled toward the door and opened it to avoid the knocks again. As it were, the knocks could have become bearable, though the knocker would have grown angrier. And that would have been bad, very bad, for behind the door was none other than Zlaya Trudnaya, as of then expressionless. Door open or closed, I would have lost.  
  
"I've been to Redwall," Zlaya announced, pacing crisply into my quarters.  
  
"You have?" I asked, trying my best to sound conversational. "You have?" I know I must have been fidgeting with something—shirt hem, spectacles—and I must have looked considerably less easygoing than one just exchanging pleasantries. Though there I wonder, is there ever a time when one would exchange pleasantries with an oppressive criminal dictator?  
  
"Indeed." Zlaya nodded curtly, as if to continue with the play on normalcy. "And I heard a concert."  
  
If before I likened Zlaya's voice to a blade, until this point it had been sheathed. On the word "concert," a bit of the steel was exposed.  
  
I nodded awkwardly in return. "A concert? What sort of music, what sort?" A perfectly logical question for a composer to ask.  
  
"Oh, it was very interesting." Zlaya had taken the liberty to seat herself and was combing her tailfur with her claws as she continued. "I'm not certain it really was music they exhibited. It was announced as some sort of opera, but to actually call it that would not be only stretching but tearing the meaning of the word. It was grinding and squealing and clashing, and any chances that the sounds might decide to form a melody were killed in the battle that the scandalous lyrics cover at the end."  
  
Though her blade (so to speak) was only half drawn now (half a blade, fancy that!), I knew exactly what Zlaya was talking about. Only a creature so ignorant of music could use such terms to describe it. And only an ignorant beast could so misinterpret. The term "opera," stretched and torn or not, gave away what she was referring to, and at its mention, my heart, pounding harder than a cadence drum, sank to my footpaws.  
  
"Oh," I managed to squeak.  
  
"The characters, too, were simply horrible," Zlaya continued. "They made no sense. Think, a mouse, a puny little rodent with no past and a broken sword comes from nowhere to throw down a mighty empire with the limited assistance of a pipe-playing clown and a halfwit-by-nature mole? Preposterous!"  
  
At that point, I didn't dare tell her the opera was based on a true story.  
  
The dictator wasn't finished, figurative blade nearly out. "But the crowning achievement, I must say, was the villain. Or so she was called. A successful wildcat empress with a huge palace and a far-reaching empire, stronger species rightly on top and goods of the lower trash going to the benefit of the state. For expansion. I see a beautiful system, remarkably familiar, and shown in the guise of villainy. Wouldn't you say, Mister Shostak?"  
  
By this point, I had removed my spectacles and was nervously overpolishing them on the hem of my shirt. "Depends on interpretation, you know. Interpretation. Most things do." Perhaps I was too bold in saying that.  
  
Zlaya stood up furiously, bladed voice at stance to strike. "It's muddle instead of music, scandal instead of song! It's blasphemy, and I don't know how you got it there, Mitya Shostak, but you're through with that institution! I'll see to it! Your quarters are open to me, I don't have to knock! I'll search your papers routinely, and if I find one more offending...sound, you're through!"  
  
With her slicing words, Zlaya strode out, slamming the door as a final sforzando to her accented phrases. I stared after her, wide-eyed in shock, before collapsing to silent suffering, head between my knees. 


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine  
  
"When I glanced at him, I was struck by his suffering aspect, his troubled and confused expression. He hurriedly led me into the small room where he slept and limply sank onto his bed and started crying, weeping out loud. In horror, I wondered if something dreadful had happened to a member of his family. In response to my questions, he mumbled indistinctly through his tears: 'They have been hounding me, they have been pursuing me.'"  
—Isaak Glikman  
  
Pain causes ever so completely much much more than just simply hurting. True, that's a part of it, but sometimes not even one of the more significant parts. The psychological component is nearly always the greater fraction, and in reference to that, I don't mean simply the dull ache remaining from a physical blow or the prolonged sting of an attack on the feelings. There's a reaction element as well, one that works in different ways, all the ways with consequences that will generally outlast the extent of physical troubles. And since those consequences may inevitably lead to more of that elementary physical or mental hurt, they should be included in all that encompasses pain.  
There are two standard reactions to pain; I found this out because I was at some time fielding both of them. To give them labels—underdescriptive ones at that—melancholy and vengeance. My pain, you know, was initially of the psychological variety. I'm actually not certain why Zlaya didn't bother making it physical, but one could easily say that a creature suffers considerably less after death. If Zlaya was out to deliberately make me as miserable as possible, from Broken-Sword Warrior on, she had an excellent battleplan.  
As it were, I was numbed by the ferocity with which Zlaya threw her darts into my opera. You know I wasn't out to attack her by writing it, you know I used a story older than Mtsensk's very foundations. Zlaya was seeing demons, it seems, much like any powerful Dictator will encounter sooner or later. Like an uncontrollable fear of water—that is a parallel between them, but I only see it now. At the time, I puzzled over how Zlaya could have been so wrong, how she never bothered to check where the opera was coming from. And if I had been out to deliberately mock her then, she should have known I wouldn't be stupid enough to be so open about it. To consider that way, Broken-Sword Warrior was so incredibly blatant, so to speak, that it had to honestly be harmless, a sort of overkill factor. That would be sensible reasoning. But, as you know, Zlaya Trudnaya never did anything sensibly.  
For a while, two weeks or so, perhaps, I moped. I ate less, slept less, and halfheartedly composed a fair quantity of useless music to Zlaya's prescription. As it was useless, it took very little time to write and left me more time to sit and ruminate. Volklov had told me about the other artists Zlaya had violently oppressed—we'd looked at some of their music, sent it off to Evgeny and Venyamin in the same folder as my own. But at that point, I didn't quite go with them. I had no idea quite what it meant to have a ban deathlocked to you. But then it happened, and I suddenly knew all of those other artists on the same level as myself. I thought of them often, I still do. And that stirred forth the vengeance part of pain.  
I am generally not a vengeful creature; vengeance does little in the end. But then again, so does melancholy, and I feel I'll never be able to shake that I acquired during the ordeal I describe here. I know I'd never particularly seek physical vengeance on anybeast, though one might say I've had it quite by accident. In what seemed an endlessly hopeless situation for me and others under Zlaya, though, I found a loophole through which I could rise against that tyranny, ironically employing the very charges condemning me.  
Zlaya still did not know about the old music room then, so it was still available as a sanctuary. It had been that before as well, you know, but more rested on that status at that point. You know Zlaya only proposed to search my quarters. I painstakingly ordered my quarters, therefore, so my "official" works and blank paper were the only musical paraphernalia present. The majority of my papers were in the old study; they were filled with lyricless notes reaching out to Redwall, commiserating with my newfound artistic equals, and even notes written with a claw's edge that deliberately attacked the dictator, so to speak. Deliberately in a musician's eyes, in a way that could be easily translated by one to the commoners. But as Zlaya, as you know, as I've told you too many times, was completely without musical knowledge, and as Volklov and I were the only creatures in Mtsensk capable of translating, the pieces were safe. But they were useless inside Mtsensk. As it were, they could have been taken to Redwall handily, but there was a chance that Zlaya could return there and hear the explanation. And then I'd be through, so to speak. But when one has the slightest undertone of vengeance in him, one looks past that fear of more complex pain.  
I hadn't seen much of Volklov Varzar since Zlaya's reaction to Broken-Sword Warrior had become public. I'd guess that, as the topic inevitably came up of exactly how the opera got to Redwall, he was probably trying to keep a lower profile than the one he already held. He paid me fewer visits, rarely any; I went to specifically find him upon finishing some of my barbed pieces. He seemed rather surprised that I so urgently needed his services after their last employment had led to a level of downfall, so to speak. But his amber eyes did reflect both concern and interest—I remember that expression, a strange one—as he followed me back to the "forbidden" study.  
We sat down at the desk and I sighed heavily, paws flickering across the edge of my papers. "You know, they're pressuring me, they're watching me."   
"I know," Volklov returned simply, not his jovial self.  
"And I don't like it. I hate it," I stated unnecessarily.  
The corners of Volklov's lips twitched. "It would be an unusual beast, a sick or a crazy one that would enjoy what they're setting on you, Mitya."   
"I mean the concept, you know, the idea. That they think they're seeing everything. They're not, I've still got this room, you know, and I can still write. But it's the idea of what they'd do, what they'd do if they found out..." I trailed off, slightly trembling.  
"You can rant to me all you want," Volklov offered, throwing a steadying arm around my shoulders like he'd done on the happier occasion at Redwall.  
I had no need to rant out loud. I'd already done that in music. And so, instead, I continued. "You know, I'll continue to compose music, even if they cut off my paws and I have to hold the pen in my teeth."   
At that remark, Volklov dropped his arm, looking distinctly more discomfited at the idea then I. But I soon outdid him again. "And I'm afraid they will, Volklov, I'm afraid they will! I'm already a spectacle, so to speak. I sit on that piano bench and play to Zlaya's whims and it's ridiculous, it's demeaning! And if I had no paws or something, it would be grotesque to see me try my trade. They'd find it funny, they'd laugh, they'd laugh! I could stop what I live to really do and just be what they see, but then I'm dead, so to speak, as good as dead. I can't stop using my creativity, it wouldn't be right and I couldn't. You have to take these papers to Redwall, but do it carefully. They'd cut off my paws for the notes, they would. If there were words and Zlaya found them, they'd cut off my paws at best, they'd do worse!"  
Still deeply shocked, Volklov tentatively approached me again, giving me a long, mournful, amber stare, then reached up and patted me softly between the ears repeatedly, also repeating softly, "Mitya, Mitya, I'm sorry..."  
For a while, that was the only noise, but I finally summoned enough more voice to conclude, "Will you take the manuscripts?"  
Volklov continued patting my head. "I will, Mitya, but only if you go to bed right now. You need the sleep."  
Volklov Varzar was a wonderful, wonderful friend, paternal at times, childishly immature at others, but always remarkably equal. He walked me to my quarters, then returned toward the main part of Mtsensk.  
The events of that night from there on you know, albeit vaguely. I have to recount them again here, though, even though I certainly don't want to. The events are vague to me as well, I must confess. There are some events, you know, that the details are closely kept to. What I do know is that Volklov returned to the old music study and picked up my anti-Zlaya pieces as well as one of the Redwall song cycles. And I also know that somewhere between inside the study and the door out of Mtsensk, he was intercepted by several guards. I don't know what amount of investigation the guards took, whether they inspected the papers Volklov carried or asked questions later. The third thing I do know is that somewhere in a dark corridor of Mtsensk that night, a wolf was clubbed to death by heavy standard-issue scabbards.  
I didn't find out until three days later; Marshal Raikh approached me and stated, simply, "Volklov Varzar is dead."  
I froze inside, though I continued to fidget outside. My thoughts were rivulets of frigid water, the same ice blue as Zlaya's fur. And they runnets all pooled into one crevasse of thought—I had, no matter how indirectly, caused Volklov's death. It was a horror I didn't, I still can't completely face nor describe in a fraction of its extent. But as Volklov undoubtedly died carrying my music, there was a reality that lowered my status significantly in my own eyes. There it disfigured me, so to speak, more than the loss of paws, more than being Zlaya Trudnaya's piano-playing clown. There's some chance to break free from those, but there were only confining stone walls in the loss of the only beast in Mtsensk I was sure would side with me at the time. I wasn't certain what would happen to me in result of the manuscripts found on the body. Death, clearly, was not the consequence, but I felt dead anyway. And I felt a need to be buried, so to speak, in the shame and horror that confined me then.  
Marshal Raikh said nothing, but rather assumed a surprised and notedly disapproving expression as I announced to her that I wanted to join Mtsensk's official military. 


	11. Chapter Ten

"The majority of my symphonies are tombstones. Too many of our people died and were buried in places unknown to anyone, not even their relatives. It happened to many of my friends. Where do you put the tombstones...? Only music can do that for them. I'm willing to write a composition for each of the victims, but that's impossible, and that's why I dedicate my music to them all."  
—DSCH  
  
A creature is not simply his fur, flesh, and blood body. That alone is appearance, it's trivial. A creature needs that to live, true, but it's not who they are. It's used for recognition, or it can be, but other traits are more indicative and individual. I'd sooner be recognized in my music than if I were out walking on the path. A creature's more likely to say, "That's Mitya Shostak's music," than, "There's Mitya." We're more than our physicalities; the species comparisons and biases so many are wont to make are proof that physicalities aren't so important. I'm a fox, dear Volklov was a wolf—we are not evil as species may suggest. When we lose that physical mass assigned to us, it's less than losing the spirit, the identity within us. Mortal decay does not touch the soul of a deadbeast—that lives on forever. And so it's far worse when a creature's spirit dies or nearly does and his body continues to perform the rituals of life.  
The death of a body and the death of a spirit can occur simultaneously, or near to that. That occurs, though, only when the components are from two different individuals. For the most ready example, when I heard Volklov was dead, my spirit took a mortal wound, deeper than from Zlaya's previous stab. My joining the Mtsensk military was deliberate adding of poison to the wound. I was as good as dead; it's fortunate that, as a soul is not material, it can be revived from very far under. As it were, if that was not true, you would not have my testimony. In fact, I had many close calls, you know, that could have resulted in the same thing and maybe worse.  
When a death is not completely sudden, the dying victim most often has a few relevant last words to say. I don't know if Volklov had time to say anything before he was killed; if he did, I have no idea what they might have been. As I sat in my quarters later on the day I learned of his fate, uncomfortable in the new uniform of a Mtsensk junior officer(!), I composed a piece serving as a swan song for the both of us. One might say, if he ever heard it, that the piece was not in my usual style, personal or official. I'd agree with that. The idea came up in complete form, just a very few lines of piano music I wrote down very quickly. It was, I think, what Volklov Varzar's own music would have sounded like had he been a composer. I didn't really try to do that, but what other idea would be a more fitting tombstone?  
It truly is a shame that the piece for Volklov will never be heard. All I remember of it now is fragments of the exposition; I could never restructure it completely. The piece isn't actually lost, though. Or if it is lost, I lost it on purpose, so to speak. To assume what I wrote was Volklov's, as it were, Zlaya wouldn't have approved of Volklov's style, either. And so what could I do with it? There was no funeral that I know of; I have no idea as to where Volklov lies even now. So there was no funeral to even consider playing it at, nor a grave to place it on. I think that if I had physically died while in Mtsensk, I would have been in much the same situation. But as I was spiritually on my deathbed, I had to close off. I left my quarters onto the outdoor, walled-in grounds of Mtsensk. Going up as close to the wall as I could, I dug a shallow trench and placed my new score in it, mentally playing the visible notes one last time before replacing the dirt over the page. So Volklov's tombstone is also underground, and that's why it's, so to speak, lost.  
I think Zlaya was expecting me to her personal office. Otherwise, she could have called or dragged me off there well before I, slightly muddy-pawed, arrived there myself on my own accord. She called me in after I knocked, timidly, four times. Zlaya sat at a large, ornate desk, a shifty-looking ferret several seasons older than me seated in a simpler chair beside it. Zlaya eyed my uniform rather amusedly before stating, "You're not going to fight for me. I won't have it."  
The opening remark surprised me—I was expecting a harsh comment on either Volklov himself or the music found on him. But instead, I got only amused observations. I tried to think of a response in return, but ended up only adjusting my spectacles and staring.  
The ferret's face remained mostly motionless except for the corners of his lips as Zlaya continued. "You can wear that uniform if you really want to, but I won't let you fight when I start my next campaign. That would be a sorry waste of your extravagant talent."  
I blinked, inside confused. That might have been a trick or a sarcastic mark, more likely than not. If I had "extravagant talent," so to speak, what was the reasoning behind everything else Zlaya had inflicted on me?  
"Extravagant, that is, if it were to be applied in a way that would be beneficial to the state. And therefore also to you. If you have suitable lyrics, the music will come." Zlaya seemed pleased with her final statement.  
My theory has always been that Broken-Sword Warrior's lyrics were the thing that bothered Zlaya so much. The music may have miffed her a bit, but the words truly set her off. If the words led to the music, really as she thought, I saw perhaps the angle that she came from. I didn't agree with it, but I saw it, and I went along with it in the deadened state I was then in.  
"Mitya Shostak, I'd like to introduce you to my Minister of Propaganda, Vsevolod Zloyevich. He's an aspiring poet, and I'll say you could make use of his verses." For interpretation's sake, "could" meant "must" when Zlaya spoke like that.  
The ferret stood up stiffly, extending a paw. "Nice to meet ya, Mitya," he said humorlessly, though the play of sound on greeting my name sent Zlaya into a bit of a disturbing chuckle. Zloyevich made no further effort to act sociable, or to even provide any more comments. Instead, he took a folder, a well-stuffed one at that, off the desk and shoved it into my paw. I thumbed through it, glancing more at the legibility factor of the green-ink scrawl than the words initially.  
"Although I'm setting no deadlines for you, Shostak, I expect to see something out of this soon enough. It should keep you plenty busy, and Vsevolod's almost always writing more." I noted how Zlaya referred to me by my surname and Zloyevich by his first, but I suppose that such addresses make much sense in how Zlaya felt about each of us. Considering that minor detail, I left the office, moving with perhaps a little less jerkiness in my step than I unconsciously usually move with.  
I suppose I should have been glad that some other creature in Mtsensk took towards a form of art on his own. Though one might say, and one would be correct in saying that Vsevolod Zloyevich and I were nowhere near the same situation, and were even less the same sort of artists. As you know, Zloyevich was in Zlaya's favor—that's a clear differentiation. Also, my being a composer is because I like to put together music, it really means something to me. As Zloyevich was the Minister of Propaganda, though, I'll suspect that his writing poetry was more another angle from which to operate his title and duties rather than verses as an expression of true feeling. Of course, you could say that Zloyevich's feelings were the propaganda, but that would display only the case of a shallow, warped personality.  
There is no way I can treat Zloyevich's verses unbluntly or without bias. I'd be outright lying to say they were anything better than what they were. The whole concept of writing music for propaganda repulses me now, though I was somewhat dulled to the idea then. But even then, I took some time to inwardly remark that, if I had to do propaganda, make it at least well-written propaganda (if there is such a thing). Zloyevich's verses simply nauseated me. The idea of composing to such trash literally churned my stomach.  
The poems made no sense: "We are advancing the century for Mtsensk,  
let us clothe our country with woodland!"  
They tried to combine elements of real emotions with images of Mtsensk's system, beginning, for example, with a sappy love poem, to end with:   
"The beauty of Mtsensk's land  
is all Zlaya's work.  
May lovers stroll in our new garden."  
They acted as if the very land itself cared about the System: "Swathes of woodland—defense of the homeland."  
And, of course, they "sucked up," so to speak, to the Dictator: "Zlaya raised us," and, "Zlaya taught us to build for life, for centuries of happiness in our land," disgusting, and even, "Glory to the banner borne by Zlaya, be our song!"  
It's hard to compose to a libretto like that. Or rather, it's hard to compose anything with even a fraction of a fraction of artistic value. It's actually impossible, but I made it a challenge to myself to come up with something palatable, so to speak. Perhaps that challenge showed I still had some spirit in me, but the end result of that hopeless musical venture was dead enough in my eyes to prove otherwise. 


	12. Chapter Eleven

"It's reality varnished over, it's reality varnished over. The truth was ten times worse than that."  
—DSCH  
  
I realize, looking at what I have of this written manuscript, that, while I complain about and attack Zlaya's System almost endlessly, I never bother to explain the details not applying to the world of musicians. Chances are, though, that you do know something about it. Most every creature I've spoken with does; they are the ones that want my personal story as opposed to a history or a dry explanation. Well, those beasts are getting what they want, but I feel I should make an allowance here, as I've done before, to explain to a rare creature completely unfamiliar with the events and circumstances covered in detail here rather than in broad. Sometimes, specifics can muddle the broader category. And also, some history has been known to be brushed over by lessons, like it never happened. Well, this happened. Mtsensk's System is still in place as I write, though weaker than when I knew it.  
To look to another source for information on the System, one would find it all from a very biased, extremely politically-enhanced view. Supporters praise it extravagantly, editing out the vast area of the unpleasant involved. Opponents either degrade the concept to no end or cover it in a single sentence, so disgusted, so to speak, that they refuse to acknowledge anything involved. And, of course, it's all done in political terms. I tell you this clearly, and you shouldn't be surprised, that I have my own strong bias; I'm incapable of covering the matter in shades of neutrality. It's far too vivid, far too pointed in my mind for that approach. But I'll explain my biased account in terms that make more sense than political lingo. That is, I'll explain in terms that don't mask the System's unjust reality.  
The System is "based," so to speak, on a perfectly plausible principle: equality. From what I understand, the ideal utilization of it would put all members of the District at equal wealth and standard of living, and it would have them all working for the greater benefit of the District. If that were really how it worked, things might not have been so bad. But when the name of the District, Mtsensk, and the name of one large building within it, Mtsensk, are the same, there can be problems in interpretation, so to speak. All the creatures in the District have about the same—that is, nothing. Equal amounts of nothing, you know. All the wealth was spread around Mtsensk, though, the building. Same name as the whole District—what's the difference? Zlaya and her military were Mtsensk, technically, and they lived equally well within (except for me, but I was never really committed to the military). And next, logically, if Zlaya was the District, then "working for the greater benefit of the district" became "working to serve Zlaya Trudnaya." It was Zlaya who decided what was beneficial, so to speak; woodlanders, travelers, merchants, and musicians were among the many things deemed harmful.  
And so something like that could be horribly twisted by words, by homonyms, synonyms, titles and the likes more than any other mechanism to be called a "System of Equality," so to speak. Redwall's existence truly is equal. Mtsensk wasn't, but it could be made to sound that way by those who wanted it to. As one of the "harmful," I was able to see right through that weakly-executed twisting, a thing done mostly at the paws of creatures with titles like "Minister of Propaganda."  
Vsevolod Zloyevich was not much of a talker. Granted, neither am I, but I answer when addressed, when appropriate; I speak praises when I can, I say what needs to be said. Rather, I'm not an extensive talker. The only words I ever got out of Zloyevich, though, were System-programmed criticisms. His biggest complaint was, of course, that I had no enthusiasm for the Glorious and Everlasting Mtsensk System. I didn't, he was right, but as it were, I had no enthusiasm for anything. At that time, ironically, I probably had more enthusiasm for the system, or rather willingness to do things for it, than at any other time in my life. But he complained, complained that my music was dull and lackluster—(of course it was to lyrics like his!)—that I absolutely needed to be enthusiastic. And then Zloyevich would contradict himself: "But if you're too enthusiastic, you'll confuse people and everything will look bad." That's an odd remark; in almost any case, an authority (so to speak) is glad when a pupil shows enthusiasm of any amount for his work. But as there was no danger of me being enthusiastic in my assignments, let alone overly so, Zloyevich felt a greater need to criticize.  
One day, Zloyevich decided to take me for a stroll over Mtsensk's grounds, the purpose of discussing the System and how I should portray it in his mind. One might say he was fed up with me, and I let him express it. I just moved along, matching his leisurely pace, though numbed for the most part to his babble (the most, I think, he ever said at once). The majority of what he said was bragging, so to speak, of the System's history, its provisions, and its image. It was propaganda in itself, very political and flaunty. I didn't start listening beyond the preliminary gist of it until Zloyevich moved to the topic of offenders, a category I surely belonged to.  
Often when a creature learns something new, he ends up thinking he was better off before he knew. That could apply to a book fact or a real experience. This one, to me, is still very vividly real. On our walk, Zloyevich took me to an area of the grounds I'd never seen, far from the main building, fenced off by bars. Initially I thought it was a continuation of the borders, but Zloyevich seemed almost proud to announce that beyond those bars was where the offenders were put. He went into detail after that announcement, I think, but I busied myself with peering through the bars. Seeing the situation would be a much clearer account than any words streaming from Zloyevich's mouth. In the distant area of the prison, as far back as I could see, groups of creatures seemed to be doing forced manual labor, but further to the fore, groups or individual emaciated creatures sat and were simply miserable. It was horrifying, to use a milder term; in my deadened state I still took a stab, so to speak, probably in wondering how I managed to escape that fate.  
Often when a creature remembers something old, he wishes it had stayed forgotten. That can also be a simple written fact, but a live example is usually more horrific. Inconspicuously as I stared into the prison grounds, a painfully thin hare in the tattered remnants of what had once been brightly-colored garb approached the bars, grabbing my attention by saying flatly and hoarsely, "Mitya?"  
My head snapped around in shock, maybe fear, and I found myself staring right into the wretched creature's eyes. I was alarmed that he knew my name—was I that infamous? I wasn't certain. For all I could have known then, with the erotic way information was spread in Mtsensk, these creatures could have even expected me to be a savior or something. But I didn't act like one. I acted like I always do when alarmed—I stuttered. "Yes, yes, I'm Mitya, you know, Mitya Shostak, that's my name, you know, yes..."  
The hare held his mournfully criticizing expression, continuing slowly, "Well, I suppose you bally well don't remember me, wot."  
At the time I didn't, and I shook my head. At that, the hare snorted weakly but with some sort of subtle purpose. "That's wot I bally expected, wot. I was blinkin' well wondering wot they did with you after the troupe and I were made flippin' hostages, wot wot. I'm Bolt, you may recall, though I bally well doubt you'd concern yourself over the likes of me, judging from that blinkin' uniform you've got yourself in."  
Ignoring the apparent hostility of the remark, I couldn't help but grin. Bolt, the hare whose troupe I'd accompanied the fateful day Zlaya had found me. Somebeast on my side, so to speak. I'd liked him very much, you know, though I was both glad and pained to see him. One might say, though, that seeing him woke my spirit some, albeit briefly. I kept grinning, and proceeded to ask a very stupid question: "Bolt! How are you, how are you?!"  
The dialect of hares may be extremely laughable, but the actual meaning of Bolt's next words was far from humorous. "How am I? I'm sitting here in this bally stinking jail pit, wot, and you're asking how am I? Well, how do you bally well think I am?!"  
My face fell, I shrugged extremely awkwardly. That was my response, though I wasn't certain whether or not Bolt actually wanted one.  
"It's bally well much worse than beyond the farthest reaches of Hellgates, wot, worse at the blinkin' best! You work until you're too bally weak to work, then you sit and they let you rot to a blinkin' bone! And that's only if you're very bally lucky. They love to watch us die, the soldiers do. I think they live for it, wot wot. Sometimes if they're in an especially jolly mood, they'll take a creature, make him do a bally little jig, then shoot him so he falls and dies in his own flippin' grave, wot! So I guess I'm all hunky-dory, since I'm still alive, but I may not be that for much bally longer, wot. And wot a way to measure is that? Blinkin' wretched! I tell you, Mitya, I don't know how you escaped it, and I'm flippin' glad for you there, wot, but that uniform pushes it out. How they got you in there only you bally well know, but it's sick and it's wrong. I'm ashamed that you'd work for me and then go off and do that, flippin' cheek! Flippin' cheek, dishonor, shame, treachery, and all that, eh wot!"  
Chest heaving after his outburst, Bolt fell to simply glaring.  
I stared back still, horrified at the realities of the prison and shamed beyond reason by Bolt's accusations. I too gulped for breath, searching very much in vain for a suitable response.  
Zloyevich, bearing a thin, practically indistinguishable smile, put a paw on my shoulder and said, "That sort of thing is why they're in there, Mitya. Works well, no?"  
We turned back at Zloyevich's motion, and I made no response to him either but to follow. I stared down my chest at the drab uniform coat, disgustedly but with a feeling that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My own criticisms, though, my self-degradation burned much less than the other sunken eyes boring into me from behind. 


	13. Chapter Twelve

ÒWhen I die, itÕs hardly likely that someone will write a quartet dedicated to my memory. So I decided to write it myself. One could write on the frontispiece, ÔDedicated to the author of this quartet.ÕÓ  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê IÕve always been somewhat puzzled by the term Òoff the deep end.Ó ItÕs used to describe a creature gone insane, you know, stark raving mad. That makes very little sense if you think about it. An insane creature is unaware, his senses have flown off and he floats in his own world, so to speak. Beneath a great depth of water, you know, the deep end, youÕre hardly floating. Rather, youÕd be under very enormous pressure from the water, pinned down instead of floating off. You can leave nothing behind in all that water, youÕre forever surrounded by its blue quandary. And thatÕs why I think Òoff the deep endÓ should refer not to the obliviously insane but rather the heavily depressed.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê In my own thoughts, you know, I can use my own definitions for figurative terms like that. So one might therefore say that, upon returning from my discussion with Bolt, I was very far off the deep end. The meeting, so to speak, had resuscitated my soulÑa completely dead spirit cannot feel anything, it cannot be depressed. Until then, IÕd let all the negative events come and pass indifferently, inattentively. But upon being revived from that death and promptly depressed, I actually recognized in full what IÕd been through, what had happened, and what IÕd done. I saw IÕd done nothing at all while the truly insane workings of Mtsensk ranted on, tearing further into the world. IÕd let it all pass like a harmless parade. And not just the occurrences of when my soul was dead, but everything IÕd missed my whole lifeÑthe oppression of artists before IÕd felt it, the utter cruelty of the prison ward, the concept that some beasts will stoop to killing others for just violation of nonsensical Òrules.Ó That revelation was more overwhelming, so to speak, then it would be to have the entire Òdeep endÓ poured upon me. It was enough to make me wish for deathÑthe physical variety. A dead spirit still sees, but a dead bodyÕs eyes are closed.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Throughout history, famous creatures in tough situations have always wished for Òhonorable death,Ó so to speak. As it were, I couldnÕt have defined that term in the state I was in, and probably wouldnÕt have bothered seeking it had it been defined. I felt dirty and useless; objects defined by those adjectives are ones that should be thrown out, gotten rid of as efficiently as possible. But to continue on the issue of definitions, the most effective disposal method was another thing I wasnÕt certain about. You know IÕd never felt like that before, and so, naturally, IÕd never previously considered the issue. On that evening, though, many ideas ran through my pressured mind, each possible yet none seeming tolerable, nothing seeming something I could really do. (This does not surprise me now.) I wished I could just lie down and sleep forever, but that situation wasnÕt doable by will. Frustrated, but not abandoning the plan IÕd sunk to, I numbly made my way to the old music room, planning to further my consideration there.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê For some time after VolklovÕs death IÕd avoided the old study, and with very little effort, you know. I wasnÕt certain if the guards had previously found the study or not, and so I steered clear. But in my newer situation, the chance that the guards did know suddenly appealed to me. Though it would have been a victory for Mtsensk, so to speak, had I died at the paws of the officials, it was an idea I could handle slightly better. Maybe that I couldnÕt approach doing away with myself subliminally meant I still had a will to live somewhere, though I only recognize that possibility in hindsight. As it were, letting the guards have their fun, so to speak, was what I would have gone for. I figured going and playing forbidden music on the piano in ZlayaÕs main hall would draw their attention soon enough. But in consideration of exactly which pieces to play, a totally new idea began to form in my mind, one that did involve postponing the guardsÕ arrival.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê YouÕve probably heard my string quartet if youÕve heard any of my music at all. ItÕs certainly one of my more widely played pieces currently, the single piece most creatures know me by for its sound. If youÕve heard it, though, you certainly have no idea what it means. ItÕs an autobiographical quartet, so to speak, and I wrote it feverishly in three nights of depression in the old study. It was meant as a farewell to life, an attack on the evils I hated enough to push me to deathÑthe guards would hear it and kill me then, but at least I would have made one final statement against them, I wouldnÕt have died so easily, so unresolvedly. One might say itÕs a summary of all the pieces IÕd written to that point; I cried as I was writing it.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Very evident through the entire piece is my musical signature, my initials. And by that, I donÕt mean simply a motif I often use. I mean my signature, literally. I recall from when I was a student another notation system, a very old one based on an ancient alphabet thatÕs not used and makes no sense. IÕm not certain why I committed it to memory, actually, but it allowed me to put my initials to tones. In ancient notation, the sequence D-E flat-C-B familiarly becomes, oddly, M-S-H-KÑthat is, my initials. I was pleased with the idea when I first used it, though applied to the quartet it swirls through all four parts often and with no joy.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The first movement is slow, and it establishes my situation. My signature begins it and drifts through it mournfully in my very own states of mind. It crescendos, my self-criticism embodied, to fade to near inaudibility, the level I was at at the time of composition. It comes back up then to a single drifting melody line, a tragic monologue of introduction backed up by the soft, indifferent, drone of the other three parts. Those parts act as if to ignore; as I ignored so much, thatÕs why three players drone. I do eventually pull another moving voice to the fore, but the conversation is brief and subdued, soon releasing the second voice back to the dead drone, losing the one friendly contact. And from there the sounds build, mostly menacingly. At one point, the chords mimic the bells of a free place, almost holy in respect to the dark brooding tones that are quick to return, perhaps not as quickly as my own hopes were dashed, as my signature rises and falls again.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The second movement arrives immediately, loud, fast, rawly brutal like a DictatorÕs tirade or a physical sweep for prisoners. ItÕs relentless, unforgiving on performers and listeners alike, pressing forward jarringly but seeming to last forever in the same beating pattern. ItÕs a creature overwhelmed or a village stormed. Images from kithood flashed to me as I wrote, of soldiers overtaking my town, rampaging the streets, sabering old and young alike. Images flashed in foreboding of future wars, ventures I knew would be forthcoming and equal to what I saw in person. Just as nonsensical, as chaotically structured, perhaps worse. Twice over the din rises a screaming melody of pain, utter anguish, and helplessness, or of twisted victory over the previous. Interpret that as you willÑI meant it as both at once. My signature too storms through the melee, my revenge on myself for not paying attention to the realities before, for letting them storm past. As physical violent horror suddenly became so conspicuous to me, I placed myself as conspicuous in the portrayal.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The storm of the second movement breaks full force into the third. The third movement is slower, but itÕs still in a quick three. One might call the third movement a sick little disfigured waltz, so to speak. The meter and tempo are right for dancing, but the melody is a wraith of its own, twisting in ways that are undeniably devilish, ways that would certainly deter dancers. ItÕs too mocking to dance to, perhaps, and I meant it to be. The passive criticisms and insults of lesser authorities, mocking and decidedly wrong sounding. Though I did also mean it as a dance, the dance of prisoners into their open graves IÕd heard about and elaborated on in my mind. Percussive pizzicatos accent the upbeat in places, the swift arrowshots from the guards. In the middle of this movement as well, a solo rises, this time swaying as uncontrollably depressed, hopeless weeping. It comes from the creatures in the prison, perhaps, but from me as well, in reaction the the sight and sounds of such horrors as well as the prominent placement of my initials, mocking again, as mocking as the uniform IÕd willingly donned.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê All of the movements are continuous; the third dies away as one may turn or walk away, return to sit in his quarters and ruminate. And then the fourth interrupts, initiated with three loud, sharp, very purposeful blasts of sound. Three knocks on the door, repeated as thereÕs no answer. IÕm too terrified to answer, I was terrified in memory when I wrote those notes, terrified those knocks would reoccur in reality as I wrote. I still jump when someone knocks innocently in that rhythm, for I always fear the incessant accusatory ranting I portray next in screamed three-way unison, one other note barely holding out against it, overwhelmed. The knocks punctuate the whole movement as they still haunt me, coming even when they wouldnÕt have. Before a section of hopeless minor musing, then again before the only major-key segment of the piece. You canÕt call that segment peaceful, though; itÕs a drawn out longing for something, itÕs fantasizing on an unreachable, be it freedom from oppression or forever abandoning the decapacitating terror, the state of being a creature bound in blind fear by three knocks on a door!  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The fifth movement serves as a conclusion; it represents no event that actually happened. Rather, it becomes a fugue on a permutation of my signature, a slow sort of relentless this time, the driving insanity of acute depression. The sound swells like a rounded wave, rolling up then sliding back down to near loss at the deep end. And then I bring back the beginning, the exact same sequence with which I open the piece. There is a difference, though, in that after another relayance of my signature, no solo ensues but rather a held minor chord, held to last until the sound completely dies away. To start again, perhaps, but never to finish because of being more completely finished. The story of this piece, my life...  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was wet when I put the final double bar down on the page, three nights after IÕd started composing. Wet from sweat and, of course, from tears. Probably more from the second. I stared at the manuscript, hot on the desk, so to speak. What to do with it then? Still feverish, I decided IÕd play through it once on the big piano. If that didnÕt get me killed, IÕd try to take it to Evgeny and Venyamin Sobareka myself. I didnÕt plan on anything beyond thatÑI was certain that IÕd be dead upon getting that far. But the quartet would be the last words from my physical self. Either way, itÕd be played, others would hear, could interpret. And, as I would be dead, hatred and misinterpretation could not hurt me. At the time I conceived it, my plan made me happy indeed, the happiest IÕd been in a long time. 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

ÒI spoke of my acquaintences in various ways throughout my life. Occasionally, I contradicted myself, and IÕm not ashamed of that. I changed my mind about those people, and thereÕs nothing shameful in that. These people simply changed, and so did I.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Another cliche thatÕs very true despite its overuse is Òeasier said than done.Ó If you were to make that statement a thesis, my life could prove it without really working to. Easier said to write an ÒacceptableÓ piece than to actually do it. Easier to say one can keep a concert absolutely secret than to have it happen. Very easy to say that friends will never die, and yet easy to say you want to finish yourself. Even with a simple plan, you know, to sit down at the piano and play through a piece, there can always be complications.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê When I say complications in playing, IÕm not referring to the obvious unfamiliarity in sightreading, the absolutely expected occurrence of playing a few or many wrong notes. Those problems, so to speak, shouldnÕt completely halt progress, you know. If they did, there would be no fine musicians in the world. The complications I refer to are more individualized, so to speak; that is, not every musician playing even the exact same piece would have to deal with quite the same issues. In fact, IÕve heard others play my quartet much better than I did personally (disregarding that I played it on the piano and they in the correct medium). One might say thatÕs oddÑI wrote the piece, I understand it better, and therefore I should play it best. As it were, their reason for my perfection, so to speak, was actually the bane on my performance. Yes, I wrote it, and I understand it all too well. Each phrase, measure, note, rest has deep significance that stirs up dark, hopeless feelings within me each time I hear them. I come to tears when I hear that piece, and so I did when I played it. And thatÕs why I can never finish it, you know. IÕve sat down and tried again and again, but IÕm not capable of playing completely through the quartet nonstop. My emotions break me apart, and the piece also. While I may play sections the most from heart, the complete work holds a greater impact, and so a quartet playing it in whole is better than I. They hear the music and maybe understand parts, but it has no power to incapacitate them like it does to me.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê When I sat down for my first attempt immediately upon completion of the quartet, I didnÕt figure IÕd have such interruptions, so to speak. If IÕd actually been able to compose the piece through free-reigning tears, taking breaks only when forced by day, I should have had no problems actually playing. But that postulate didnÕt finish the proof there; I was wrong. Perhaps more atmosphere and circumstance were what affected me than content. Perhaps thatÕs what I recall when I hear the piece now. ZlayaÕs great hall was dim and silent, only silvered windowlight from above casting illumination over the piano. I laid the score out in front of me, but I think I would have relied more on my memory anyway had there been sufficient light. Sitting down and staring at the keys, my mind raced with the reminder: This is your last piece, Mitya Shostak. Your last piece. Make it good. So theyÕll remember. Mitya Shostak, your last piece.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I started playing very softly, barely brushing the keys, barely letting out a sound. Hesitantly, though, I did crescendo to the dynamic IÕd written, making it cry out at its actual magnitude. At first I only paused briefly before each section, inhaling deeply and with a shudder. Approaching the second movement, I was given a rude reminder, so to speak, of my purpose. War, wounds, crying, death. Last piece. I mouthed the words, already damp eyecorners drizzling tears again. Approaching the solo in the middle of the second movement, I kept playing, but said it aloud: ÒThis is my last piece.Ó And the third movement, the dance, the shots, I paused and spoke it again, ÒLast piece!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê And so it went, the pauses becoming longer and more frequent, my paws less willing to hold to planned motions across the keys. I was getting myself vengeance, I was granting myself a relief to let that all out, and yet I was torturing myself. My tears rolled forth as freely as water after a floodwallÕs just been broken down. And between or in the middle of it all, I repeated like some insane mantra: ÒThis is my last piece! This is my last piece!!!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I donÕt recall exactly how far I got into the piece. It doesnÕt really matter now, but IÕd like to wish and believe that I just maybe got all the way through it that once. It can be certain, though, that I was making a great deal of noise with all my playing, shouting, and sobbing. My initial goal, youÕll recall, was to attract the attention of the guards. Well, I succeeded at that handily, in addition to bringing forth a few higher profiles, so to speak. As the guards stormed with a confused fury into the hall, Vsevolod Zloyevich approached at his own metered pace, expressionless as usual but posing the simple, sinister question, ÒIf thatÕs your last, where are the ones for me?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê In my state of helplessness I was still angry inside, angry he cared so much about something clearly so useless while I was still quite uncaring about the fate of my very life at the time. I before then and now wouldnÕt stand up to someone with such powerÑcall me a coward if you will. But I stopped playing, looked right at him, and repeated my phrase. ÒThis is my last piece!Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê What happened after that could have very well come straight out of a work of fiction. Zloyevich clearly wasnÕt pleased by my hysterical, unthought response, so he moved toward me with a purposeful sinister glint in his eyes. The guards that quite literally surrounded the piano in a ring followed the inward closure, trapping me as a central focus pinned to the piano bench, so to speak. I think I would have swiftly gotten what IÕd bargained for then if, not unlike some secret-identity superhero, Marshal Raikh broke into the circle, glaring at Zloyevich and the guards. She too, I was certain then, was going to kill me in the end, you know, but her higher authority halted Zloyevich for then, a fact for which I wasnÕt completely grateful at the time.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I think Raikh and Zloyevich exchanged a few words, but I donÕt recall them and they also donÕt matter. The end result was, though, that the guards retired, Raikh gripped my wrist in one paw and my music in the other, and she ordered, ÒCome on, Mitya.Ó I followed with a stumble; she led me, of all places, to the old study.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê We sat down at the desk at which I did most of my composition, Raikh opposite me. Her face was straight, though in a much different way than ZloyevichÕs always was; I was still hysterical inside, racked outwardly with resultant tremors. Neither of us spoke for quite some time, actually enough time for me to somewhat restrain myself, you know, to calm down physically anyway. It was an awkward silence, more awkward than even my usual agitated nervousness. I surprised myself, you know, as I was the one to finally break the eerie still, stating with a waver, ÒWell, thatÕs it, you know, thatÕs it. YouÕre going to kill me now, arenÕt you?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh maintained the silence a little while longer, almost as if my words had been part of it. When she finally made her input, though, it was businesslike yet calm, the real breakthrough into the air and my understanding. ÒI agree with the System, I like what it means,Ó she began, Òideally. ZlayaÕs interpretation is wrong.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I thought that a rather odd opening statement, especially when the matter in my mind was still whether or not I died then. But I didnÕt bring it upÑnobody wants to hear thoughts like that, and IÕm sorry to you readers for it. Definitely not wanting to hear another lecture about the System from a high-ranking Mtsensk official, yet unconsciously agreeing about ZlayaÕs interpretation of things in general, I settled nevertheless to let Raikh pour her story out to me. ItÕs curious that so many creatures complained out their emotions to my pathetic ears, but it happened and I could only listen.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒIf the System was operated ideally, it would work well and everybeast would be happy, everybeast would be equal. ThatÕs what I saw it would be when it first started. IÕm much older than you, Mitya, this was probably before you were born or when you were very, very young. Nyevyerniy Ydyeal, the first leader, promised an ideal system, and thatÕs why I signed up to fight for him. We gained an area to start from; I got promoted to where I stand for my service. But after that initial conquering, Zlaya managed to get Ydyeal killed off somehow and took over from him, then went above the whole System. I can see how perhaps a ruler would have to be slightly above to maintain control, but not as far as Zlaya went. Under Ydyeal, weÕd intimidated many creatures into conforming, I confess, but Zlaya kept up the intimidation. She turned it into outright oppressionÑyou know that better than mostÑand thatÕs not fit for the benefit of the District. If sheÕd not been so relentless, creatures might have seen the beauty of the Ideal System and gone with it, but Zlaya didnÕt let them see that and wouldnÕt be capable of upholding that. SheÕs a control freak, and the System doesnÕt call for that. SheÕs no equal benefit.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh paused there, looking me over, startling me with a look right in the eyes as I tried to take in her words in addition to that stare. I still said nothing, still trembled. I would have cut her off had I tried to speak.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh continued: ÒIdeally, the standard of living would be equal, and the people, not one creature, would pick whatÕs beneficial. And I know that the arts would count as beneficial. Music never actually hurt anybody. Beasts get hurt for listening to and for writing music, but the actual notes never hurt a soul. Dislike is a completely different matter. And I donÕt even dislike it. When it was possible, IÕd go to concerts of music by creatures like Zunov, Rimskor, Travin, Sorgsky, and Ofiev, among others. If IÕd ever learned to play an instrumentÑand I wish I hadÑI would have learned to play their music as well. Before they were all banned, of course. IÕve been much less tolerant since then, IÕve been less able to handle other injustices. Everybeast needs an escape; Zlaya took away mine and yours.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh examined me again, looked into my confused eyes again. ÒI love your music, too, Mitya Shostak. YouÕre a genius, pure and simple. ThatÕs why IÕve been helping you." 


	15. Chapter Fourteen

ÒHe was always professional, everywhere in any situation. He wanted to be a patron of the arts, but his mind swirled with military affairs. Sometimes he told me a thing or two. In those moments, I liked him and didnÕt like him.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê IÕll apologize right now for leaving the last chapter off so abruptly. Of course that doesnÕt really matter to any reader whoÕs going to read through continuously, who doesnÕt have to take a break between chapters, but I feel a need to apologize anyway for my break. One might wonder why I took a break when I did, though. One might say I picked a very strange place to stop, that it would have been much easier to just keep writing while the topic was heated, so to speak. Well, thatÕs actually why I stopped. I sit down and write a whole chapter at once, and the last one got too heated, you know, very overwhelming. I donÕt mean in action detailsÑthere are very few of those here, you know. As I always do, I refer to the mental strain of consequences. Going into the study with Raikh, I was depressedÑyou know, I shouldnÕt have to say that againÑI thought I had no creature left on my side in the accessible world.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Some of what Raikh actually did may be known to you, or at least the biased generalization of what she did listed in official records of her Òcrimes.Ó But thatÕs all you know, and itÕs not much, youÕll agree. Official reports arenÕt lax on information; theyÕre propaganda-heavy, of course. But if you know little of the matter currently, I knew as much less as possible. I was often in the dark, so to speak, and the lights were always turned on very abruptly right in my face.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Right in front of me sat Raikh, MtsenskÕs Marshal, ZlayaÕs military commander, a strong force not to be argued with, someone to be very much feared. RaikhÕs name stood by ZlayaÕs imposingly, the last sort of presence youÕd expect to find at a concert by will. Her sturdy, uniformed physique added to the impression of one who would hold only contempt for the arts, not to mention be ignorant to them. And she was sitting at a table littered with staff paper in the middle of a music library, across from me. And, you know, she was saying she was helping me. This made no sense to meÑisnÕt help something a creature should notice? I continued my bout of silence, dropping the matter of death to consider RaikhÕs cryptic statement, staring past her and finally voicing, ÒI beg your pardon?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh gave a brief chuckle, a sound IÕd never heard from her before, and a surprisingly warm sound at that. ÒI said IÕve been helping you.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I blinked, then stirred into a bit more motion, giving my head a bob of a nod, sending my paws scrabbling over the desk for nothing in particular. ÒI heard you, I heard you,Ó I told her. ÒBut IÕve been wondering, so to speak, how? You know, how?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh chuckled again, her voice set with a knowing edge. IÕm fairly certain sheÕd expected me to ask the question I did. Her answer seemed practically prepared, so to speak, rehearsed, not to mention remarkably less longwinded than her previous speeches. ÒBriefly, IÕve seen to it that your concerts go on.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê That remark puzzled me further; my mental state was not particularly stable, one might say. But that puzzlement was almost an annoyed one. Volklov had gotten my music out, the Sobarekas had organized it, Redwall had housed the performances. They were the ones that ran my concerts, just as much of a contribution as my own, as amazingly significant as the music itself. It was a wonderful institution, happened upon by those who werenÕt meant to only by wild chance. And Raikh, sitting across from me, had always been an enemy in my eyes until that evening. Even then, I resented her with crediting herself for my success. That is, I appreciated her opinions but wouldnÕt hold her for that sort of radical just yet. Still numbed, I donÕt think I quite managed a facial expression, but I repeated my previous question. ÒHow?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒBy not telling what I know.Ó Another brief response from Raikh, who I always thought was no less that straightforward, even when she was longwinded.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒAnd what, so to speak, did you know?Ó I still wasnÕt satisfied by not knowing what Raikh knew. If I ever sounded like the prying investigator instead of the witness or defendant, it was on that night.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh paused, as if she thought I knew exactly what she was talking about. She waited to see if IÕd let it go, so to speak, but I did nothing to indicate I didnÕt need an answer. Eventually, Raikh did catch on; she began to speak more matter-of-factly again. ÒI knew pretty much everything that was going on, actually. I showed you this study, youÕll recall, so of course I know you come in here to compose.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I had known that, but it had slipped my mind by then, you know. On that recollection, though, I did consider that Raikh could have told Zlaya on me any time sheÕd wanted to. And yet she hadnÕt done it. ÒBut how did you know just what I was writing in there, you know, the nature of the music?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh shrugged. ÒThat was a matter of logic. Why would you have needed a separate room from your quarters if all you were writing was stuff for Zlaya? And also, why would Volklov Varzar have been smuggling the music out of Mtsensk if it had been acceptable?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I jolted forward, my spectacles sliding forward to the tip of my nose. ÒYou knew about Volklov?!Ó The concept of Raikh being in on that as well baffled me.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒI knew all too well,Ó Raikh explained. ÒHis secret exit is right by my quarters. I disciplined him rather severely onceÑZlaya made me do it when she caught him leaving after sheÕd visited me. That punishment is why he has such a bad opinion of me. ZlayaÕs order was that Volklov died if he was caught using that exit again. I watched him go often, though, and just didnÕt report it.Ó Raikh paused for a deep breath, slightly wavering. ÒHe died...the guards were put there right after the whole mess with Broken-Sword Warrior. Zlaya had her suspicions, and wouldnÕt let him pass. SheÕs been rather displeased with me since then for not watching close enough.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê There was silence again; I think it was a moment to VolklovÕs memory. But also for my consideration. I interrupted the still again, wondering this time, ÒAnd did you know about the Redwall concert, you know, the first one? Did we really go there for the concert?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh sighed, looking down. ÒYes and no...That is, we went that specific day because thatÕs when the concert was, and thatÕs why I brought you, but I would have gone anyway for other reasons. ZlayaÕs wanted Redwall under MtsenskÕs control for a very long time. The reason that I knew about the concert is that weÕd sent a small party of scouts to Redwall to have a look. They heard about the concert and told me. When the time came for there to be a negotiations visit, I had us go on that date. Because of the concert, though, no negotiating actually happened, and that didnÕt please Zlaya at all. ThatÕs why she went to Redwall herself; it was coincidental that she showed up when the opera was on. But because it was on that day she got there, she was through with the negotiation stage. Zlaya is going to Redwall again, Mitya. And sheÕs going with soldiers this time, without my consent. SheÕs going to go in and act like sheÕs simply negotiating, but then the abbey will be attacked from all four sides. She told me all about this, but she wonÕt hear my say.Ó Raikh sounded almost like she was pleading, and it alarmed me almost more than what she actually said.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê You probably know what would have happened to Redwall, but not from that dialogue. Like with VolklovÕs fate, accounts of that evening in the study are dumbed down, so to speak, twisted, told only in part, and hit with a different angle and color of light. ItÕs a very rosy light thatÕs commonly seen, though the actual hue was a much deeper red. As much as I hate to do it, as much as itÕs painful to go on, I have to continue, and IÕm going to darken that filter into the true colors.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Raikh had taken me to the study hurriedly, youÕll recall, and sheÕd not closed the door all the way. Though our conversation started at a low level, the nature of the revelations involved dragged the volume upwards. Now, IÕm making assumptions in saying that Zloyevich probably called ZlayaÕs attention to the hubbub in the main hall, and then brought her toward where Raikh had dragged me. ItÕs also only a guess as to how long sheÕd waited outside the door, but it was very apparent that Zlaya had been eavesdropping from the brisk manner she burst through the door in alone.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê What occurred next was oddly disjointed, almost in frames, so to speak. One might say it was a surreal experience, moving at first in slow motion but the aftershock rushing on faster than a creature can comprehend, let alone calculate. IÕll go at it panel by panel, then. Not a word was uttered in the slow motion, not even a conscious sound was made until realtime life returned. Just suddenly, there was a dagger in ZlayaÕs paw, and then, as abruptly, the same blade appeared in RaikhÕs back. The rat staggered back and slammed down onto the ground; then the world rushed on again. I leapt back, trembling uncontrollably. Zlaya retrieved her dagger; the spray of blood on her blue-streaked fur gave it an odd violet sheen. Raikh twisted on the floor, tilting her head upward in a final effort. If no other line in this whole memoir is a verbatim quote, I remember RaikhÕs last words. ÒZlaya Trudnaya, IÕm going beyond Hellgates...thatÕs for certain, but...I wonÕt see you there. YouÕre...going somewhere...far...worse...Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê As RaikhÕs eyes glazed over, Zlaya cast the dagger lightly onto the table, the blade just missing smearing appropriate blood on the score of my quartet. Zlaya glanced at it passively, as if what sheÕd just done was no big deal. And then her cold, dark, empty eyes fell on my pathetic, trembling form. I was thinking I was next; I was surprised that blade hadnÕt found its way into my back. Well, that was as cohesive of a thought as I could piece together just then, and I think my physical position fairly screamed those thoughts.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒIÕm going to Redwall in a few days,Ó Zlaya said, disturbingly casually. ÒYouÕre coming with me. They like you there. YouÕll play for them, and itÕll help.Ó Not waiting to see if I had any sort of responseÑand I didnÕt, I was far too terrified to even squeakÑZlaya strolled out.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê For IÕm not certain how long I leaned back against a wall, my chest heaving, my eyes wide. When I finally pried myself off of the wall, I staggered over to the table, staring down at my quartet score and the dagger. IÕd gone from wanting to die to being in awe I was alive that night, but prospects still didnÕt look good. When IÕd finally realized another friend, she had to go and be killed like that. I thought IÕd been left alone after VolklovÕs death, but with RaikhÕs brutal murder, I was absolutely by myself. Evgeny and Venyamin were out of reach, Bolt held nothing but disgust, and Redwall was going to have some of its own problems. I knew exactly what they were, and therefore knew how they might be stopped, but only if Redwall had fair warning. And that was the problem.   
Ê Ê Ê Ê I stared at the dagger and the score longer, squinting moist-eyed through my spectacles. That was when I decided what I needed to do. 


	16. Chapter Fifteen

ÒThis makes it even harder for me to compose. It must sound odd: itÕs hard to compose because the audience understands your music.ÓÊ Ê Ê Ê   
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I seldom elaborate in words on my compositions themselves, or at least not on the technicalities and form. And for good reason, you knowÑyouÕd be bored sick if I were to cover that all. ItÕs absolutely true, you know, that music is better appreciated when a creature understands how it works, so to speak, how it fits together. IÕve read the text writings of some other composers, and very, very many of them spend pages and pages describing often rather insignificant passages or chord sequences in terminology a laybeast couldnÕt have a chance to understand. I could do that, but then IÕd be tempted to in turn define all the musical terms IÕd surely use. And that would be a tangent of many, far too many pages. If you care so much about a certain chromatic scale in fifths in the thirtieth measure of the second movement of whatever piece, go and listen to it.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I also touch very little on the manner in which I compose. You know I work intensely, and most often at night, but what does either matter on the final product? How could someone tell whether or not something was written in fits or at once, sketched out or in full, black ink or purple, down the staff and across or vice versa? That would also be boring and useless to discuss. And if you still have some curiosity to that, you know, call it part of the mystery of the Creative Process. Probably when IÕm gone some biographer will talk to a creature who knew me well, and youÕll be able to read about it then. But thatÕs just another irrelevant here.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê While what I just touched on stretches out to boring, so to speak, I do know, though, that IÕd be able to keep your attention for just as many pages if I were to explain the meaning behind my music. That is, the hidden significance, the reason. IÕm not going to do that, though, at least not more than I have already. There are some things that I just want to keep to myself, some pieces that would be less valuable to me if they were explained to everybeast else. I explained my quartet because I meant that much of it to make open sense;if you listen, you donÕt need an explanationÑitÕs as clear as a primer. But with other pieces, theyÕre a musical code only I know. Every composer has his mysteries, and those are mine. I used to be even more secretive than I am now; that was pounded into me by the mere atmosphere of Mtsensk. That placeÕs walls had eyes and ears, so to speak, and I still canÕt shake the feeling of their presence. What I tell you know, you know, is a big improvement on how I was immediately following this ordeal. But as it were, I had a difficult, pain-and-fear-streaked time trying to write a clear, explanatory piece for the Redwallers.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê If you havenÕt heard it, you probably wonder how I managed that, that is, to write a piece that doesnÕt just tell a story but bust apart a military and political plan. IÕve mentioned repetitively how some creatures know nothing about music. Well, as you know, these creatures can still have their interpretations. But interpretation has its own sort of technicalities, exclusive to individuals but equipped with mutually influenceable similarities. And there was the other part of the difficulty in writing what I had to writeÑbroadcasting a message that hits the minds of most creatures with, of course, the correct message. Many pieces are meant to be taken in several different ways, but a set message has to be set firmly.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I did I good job in the endÑthat is, creatures understood me. You know that; itÕs why you know me. The interpretation worked, even without words. True, words would be the clearest route to comprehension, but you donÕt go around shouting your foeÕs battleplan to your friends while your foe is at the same hearing distance. The music explained itself well enough to both sides, you know. And the consequences sent me reeling. IÕve only been able to really appreciate that recently.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê IÕm not a military creature; I know nearly nothing of the so-called Art of War. ThatÕs different than the Character of War. You canÕt help but be carried off and lost in the horrors of the Character, but the Art, so to speak, is something most have to study. True, there are naturals at strategy, one might say in the same manner that IÕm a natural at music. But IÕm not both, you know. I do know, however, that one has to establish the opposing sides in their campaign writeup before explaining anything else. That was the easy part, you know. I have vast amounts of material on the topic of Redwall. There were the song cycles IÕd written, there were the other songs IÕd heard bits of while visiting the abbey, and then there was the vast series of melodies from Broken-Sword Warrior. I finally decided to open this piece in the same manner as the opera, a part of the Mossflower scene-setting overture. To symbolize Redwall itself, I used a combination of themes for Warrior and Sword, themes used often and prominently in the opera, and therefore ones that were more likely remembered.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê To pick which melody would represent Zlaya Trudnaya was also a rather obvious task, that is, I had no trouble in decision. I knew exactly what IÕd use for that purpose when I conceived the piece. The issue was in writing it down, in knowing that IÕd have to play it with Zlaya in the room. It was her interpretation which gave me that easy idea. I was fairly certain that somebeast had spread the news of ZlayaÕs reaction to Broken-Sword Warrior to Redwall. When Zlaya was angry, everybeast, I think, found out. And even without that knowledge, the wildcat empress theme sounds evil and oppressive. Not much ink is needed to draw parallels, so to speak. ThatÕs why it was a dangerous move. But when one weighs the danger to one against the danger to many, I was dispensable. As it were, I didnÕt really feel like I wanted to die anymore, you know, but I wasnÕt quite holding life in an iron grip, so to speak. And so immediately after the introduction of Redwall, I brought in Zlaya.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê After the introductions, I had to show that Zlaya was coming to Redwall, but at the same time, I had to make it seem like a walk, not a marchÑa deceptively peaceful arrival. Ferocity was for later. Ferocity is easier to convey with a villain theme, though. Taking what limited time I could for consideration, I quoted a theme from the sometimes-banned SorgskyÕs works, one specifically meant as walking from one spot to the next. ItÕs a happy, sweet little tune, and I used it between a major-key rendition of the Zlaya theme and the melody without the chords for Redwall. As IÕd been informed of SorgskyÕs piece also being performed at Redwall, I figured the meaning would once again be clear.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê To the point, I thought I was perhaps overusing my established themes, but it was also necessary to enforce meaning by sticking with the same ideas. Therefore, for the impending false-meaning talks between Zlaya and the Abbot of Redwall, I mimicked OfievÕs theme-and-variations conversation implications. The Ofiev piece I nearly quotedÑparaphrasing it, so to speakÑwasnÕt among the ones banned, then or now, and therefore was played often and widely. ItÕs a well known piece, and I made my reference obvious.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Underneath the conversation bit, toward the end, I built up crescendoing chords, the advance of the scores of Mtsensk soldiers from outside. Eventually I stopped the chatter, so to speak, the chords dominating and segueing into the fanfare for Mtsensk IÕd composed on my very first day in the fortress, before I knew about the ban, before I knew much about Redwall, before IÕd even conceived I might get in trouble. Certainly before I knew the full extent of ZlayaÕs evil. From the fanfare, I projected into the battle. I donÕt need to describe how I do battles again. Just recall the second movement of my quartet. ItÕs like that, if you havenÕt heard it, replacing the original solos from the quartet with ZlayaÕs and RedwallÕs themes. They get louder and softer in a push and shove, battling with no determined result.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I stopped writing, right there. I didnÕt know how to end the piece, how to leave the battle or finish it. If I were to show the Redwallers winning, that might convey the Redwallers as easily superior, and then they wouldnÕt worry so much. And then theyÕd be defeated by default. But I couldnÕt show Mtsensk winning, I couldnÕt because it was a very real threat, and yet also because I couldnÕt see it happening. Maybe I didnÕt let myself go there, I donÕt know, but I couldnÕt see it happening and ending that way. To show Mtsensk winning would move the piece from a warning to a threat, the worst thing that could happen just short of the piece not setting off any alerts. There, the biggest dilemma of the process, the hardest part of the piece. It was just too open-ended. Open-ended enough so thatÕs how I just left it. Open. No writing history before itÕs that. I wrote an overlap of the two main themes growing louder and louder, converging, then abruptly dropping off. A silence of two measures, then an echo of my signature: MSHK.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I realize that IÕve just done what I said would bore you, what I listed as pointless and said I wouldnÕt do. Funny how the chapter just went that way, you know, and IÕm sorry. But as it were, I did explain that way, and I think I had to. ThatÕs what you do when thereÕs no live example. Though on the other paw, I could have just told you what I meant; just like I could have brought a note to Redwall instead of a manuscript, expressing 


	17. Chapter Sixteen

ÒWhen I got into that dark carriage, I felt that I was in paradise! But by the seventh day of the journey I felt that I was in hell. When we were settled in the classroom of the school, and whatÕs more given a carpet and surrounded by suitcases, I again felt myself to be in paradise; but after three days I was fed up; in these circumstances you canÕt get undressed, surrounded by strangers. I again perceived this as hell.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Each creature has a map in his mindÑnot so much one that marks different places by actual location, but rather pinpoints them with set associated emotions. There are shady places and clear ones, ones with a large population of emotion, so to speak, and ones with a smaller countÑitÕs like a normal map with the color and size of the dots marking places. On a printed paper map, though, there is no distinction between ÒgoodÓ places and ÒbadÓ places. That sort of distinction comes only on a multidimensional mental map, and itÕs a different grouping per creature. For example, I loathe Mtsensk, love Redwall, and am tied strongly to my home village despite the fact I donÕt want to return there and see whatÕs become of it. Zlaya, on the other paw, adored Mtsensk, couldnÕt have cared less about my town, and saw Redwall as unfavorable but with an easily changed status.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê One might say itÕs difficult to link the good places to the bad ones; rather, one wouldnÕt want to try and make such connections. They might raise the view of one of the lower places, but a detraction from a better placeÕs image is just as likely. And yet as surely as there are solid line routes marked on a real map, routes from good to bad exist in the mind. Sometimes theyÕre murky and mostly ignorable, but in the rarer case new such routes can be cleared by a live element of a physical ÒbadÓ place literally moving toward a real ÒgoodÓ place.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê My second trip to Redwall was far lacking in pleasure compared to the firstÑthat is, the actual trip as well as the stay. The lavish, luxurious belled carriageÑthe same one that I heard when I first met ZlayaÑmade for a physically comfortable ride, but to be seated next to Vsevolod Zloyevich immediately and Zlaya Trudnaya to his other side was mentally extremely strenuous. The hordes of Mtsensk soldiers that followed at some distance behind also were responsible for a note of discomfort. The ride to Redwall took several days, and I think I would have been happier enduring it as a bout of tedium rather than a bout of extreme tenseness.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The conversation between Zlaya and Zloyevich was sporadicÑfor hours theyÕd be silent, and then theyÕd chat for another block of time. The subject matter, you know, was mostly on the planned procedure of dominating Redwall. And if it went beyond that, it was going beyond in timeÑtalk of what to do with such a stronghold once itÕs captured. To restructure it, rename it? And how to handle the RedwallersÑimprison them, enslave them, kill them all? That, Zlaya and Zloyevich decided, would depend on what happened in the attack. The attack that was still the primary concern, for there would be time to think about what comes after afterwards.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Compromising the attack was also the false peace talk, so to speak, beforehand. One might say that Zlaya put very much consideration into a speech whose only purpose was to buy time. I think that Zlaya could have just attacked aloneÑIÕm glad she didnÕt, donÕt get me wrongÑbut it would have been easier. And yet Zlaya wanted to go inside firstÑa fortunate thing for me, even to contradict myself. Zlaya would say something with flowery, yet propaganda-laced language, then sheÕd turn to Zloyevich, expecting some sort of comments. I suspect that, had he not nodded in agreement with her words, Zlaya would have still kept her speech the way it was. Perhaps she looked to Zloyevich for additional propaganda to use; perhaps ZloyevichÕs being Minister of Propaganda had something to do with the speech-first plan. After all, the military leader was dead and therefore had no further influence.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Most of the time, you know, Zlaya and Zloyevich probably had no thoughts of me whatsoever, but even when the topics turned, it was still as if I wasnÕt there. Relative to the speech, they discussed just when IÕd be playing. It was decided that Zlaya would announce our presence, then I would play, and the speech would come after. Zloyevich, however, brought up that perhaps heÕd better go over the pieces I was planning to play to be sure they conveyed only ÒacceptableÓ ideas. I said nothing and tried not to fidget any more than I do normally. Zlaya passed off ZloyevichÕs idea, saying that I wouldnÕt try anything funny if I knew what was good for me. That they were so incorrect, that they had no idea rather astonished me, but I was, of course, glad of that fact. I just sat back and listened as the topic still hovered around me. Zlaya complained her displeasure at the message and sound of my music; Zloyevich ranted on and on about how I expressed completely bogus ideals. Even for the pieces I wrote for Mtsensk, the ones deemed acceptable, there were complaints. Oh, these lyrics are good, Vsevolod, but ShostakÕs notes donÕt quite make a melody; This one ends softly, and I really donÕt like that; Shostak should really take assistance in his work, for they would be worlds better then. I was completely invisible to them; one doesnÕt noticed the pained and insulted expression on an invisible face.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê IÕm not certain how the parties from Mtsensk managed to get inside Redwall previously. The time I went, I think, had something to do with RaikhÕs secretly supporting my cause. ItÕs the times that Zlaya went on her own that puzzle me. This time IÕm addressing now, we arrived at the abbey at night. I think that was part of the plan, so the soldiers could also come up in darkness. The dim lantern held by the walltop guardÑa squirrel this timeÑcouldnÕt cast that far of a light. But it did enough to illuminate our carriage on the path by the front gate.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Naturally, the squirrel was extremely hesitant to let the likes of three beasts in somewhat spangled Mtsensk dress uniforms into Redwall. IÕm still actually not certain why he did. Probably the famous Redwall hospitality kicking in, saying these travelers should have beds. I mean not to criticize such a wonderful reception, but IÕm certain it has and will again let destructive evil into the abbey. With my new piece, I deemed Zlaya checked, but she very well could have been destructive. That worried me then, and it still worries me now, though I know the outcome.Ê Ê Ê Ê   
Ê Ê Ê Ê There was still considerable activity in Great Hall despite the time of night. The flickering lanternlight cast a strange and new tone on the walls and the faces of the resident creatures. The room was still a comfort, but the lanterns illuminated in particular the eyes of the Redwallers, showing them to be focused on us. And it was not a very friendly glow, so to speak, but rather pinpoints of fierce concentration set off in sets of two. It was different, very different from the numerous fixed eyes I felt on my first trip to Redwall. That was at first a criticizing stare, but also a questioning one and not very threatening. Later, those turned to stares of admiration for meÑa pressuring but tolerable sort of stare. But that night I was there with Zlaya the stares cut and stung, making me very much want to shed my company and my uniform.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The four of usÑthat is, the squirrel, Zlaya, Zloyevich, and IÑwere intercepted by a mole, apparently also a guard. He had a few words with the squirrel, then turned to Zlaya and Zloyevich, motioning for them to follow him. They actually did, without a sneer, and that surprised me, but I suppose that they had to keep up a good image (as if they ever had one) until their attack went off. IÕll assume they were led off to some sort of private room or area, one around which creatures were set up on close watch. I wondered why I wasnÕt put under similar surveillance (if that was the case with the other two); I think now that it was because the squirrel recognized me. Come to think of it, that recognition could have very well been a factor in his letting all of us into the abbey. He looked over my vile uniform with a disapproving eye, but he generally treated me with kindness and some sympathy; I think he knew I didnÕt want to be what I appeared. I was offered a stay in either the gatehouse again or to go upstairs to the regular dormitory. I paused to consider this: to go to the gatehouse would mean potentially waking up the old recorder, while I thought I might alarm the Redwallers in the dormitory by my species and uniform.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê In the end, I told the squirrel IÕd figure something out and that he could go back to his post. He shrugged, probably wondering if I had any idea where anything was within the abbey, but he did go back like IÕd said, leaving me standing in Great Hall. Since weÕd arrived, the other creatures had left, and so I was alone. I paced up and down the length of the entire hall several times, my mind roiling with worries upon worries for the next day. So much depended on me playing well and with the right expressions. So much depended on me actually getting all the way through the piece. I couldnÕt be interrupted by the crowd; I couldnÕt let my emotions incapacitate me as theyÕre so wont to do in other cases. Perhaps should I practice? I looked at the keyboardÑit was moved to the corner of the hall when it wasnÕt in use. No, I decidedÑthat would be bad. It might wake some creature, or it might give something away too soon.   
Ê Ê Ê Ê I sighed and lay down on the piano bench, gazing across the hall at the great tapestry, which was illuminated by moonlight rising through a stained glass window. I focused on the image until I fell asleep. 


	18. Chapter Seventeen

ÒAn artist on stage is a soldier in combat. No matter how hard it is, you canÕt retreat.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Everything has a climax, every single thing thatÕs not completely static. If it has any change or forward drive at all, thereÕs going to be a climax somewhere along the line. For a lump of coal, that climax point might be when pressure suddenly transforms it into a diamond. For a plant, the moment it flowers and can produce seed. For a creature, one might say itÕs either the Òbest day of their life,Ó or the day they did something after which there was much changeÑthat is, the day they perhaps did their purpose. ThereÕs a feeling to days like that, and though IÕm still pretty young, I know that feeling.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê A creature still is more likely to associate the idea of a climax with a piece of literature (or music). True, itÕs easier to see a climax there, but all literature (and most music, of course) is based on real life. A work of fiction, no matter how bizarre it is, always has some concrete real basis. And a work of fiction always has a very clear, exaggerated climax. But nonfiction, that is real real life, shows the climaxes more than mental consideration might. A paper with a thesis comes to its climax with its strongest support. An account of a conflict peaks with the turning-point decisive battle. And, of course, a biography or memoirÑa life on paperÑtakes the same climax point as the actual occurrence. It may not seem as personal or significant, it may never hold that feeling in written words, but there is undeniable excitement in a climax nevertheless.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Of all the places IÕve been, Mtsensk has the smallest number of windows. ItÕs mostly darkÑto fit its demeanor, you knowÑand itÕs therefore quite easy to lose track of time and sleep late there. Redwall is perhaps a complete opposite. The stained-glass and clear crystal windows catch each ray of light as it climbs over top the horizon, and each ray in turn gets shot, bent, and dappled across the entire Great Hall. Asleep on the piano bench in the corner of the hall, I dreamed in an odd red light. I woke up and a patch of stained-glass red slanted across my nose. I think it may be nice to wake up to cheerful colors, but the red wasnÕt cheerful in that circumstance. It was ominous then, and that wasnÕt a reminder I needed.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Perhaps I should say that nothing was a needed reminder. I hadnÕt actually dreamed about the confrontationÑif I had, IÕm certain I would still remember it todayÑbut thoughts from the evening returned in the morning, along with the discomfort of having slept on a small wooden bench, along with the discomfort of not having had anything to eat in quite a few hours. The latter two complaints were of much lesser concern, though. Those are average discomforts, so to speak, but the discomfort of having othersÕ lives in your paws (especially to a composer, who only ever controls notes) is enormous. ItÕs very fortunate that situations involving that anxiety and discomfort donÕt arise too incredibly often, and when they do only a select few poor souls are stuck with that feeling. In Redwall then, it was my turn.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The Redwallers also mobilized for the day very early, as first indicated by the clanging of pots from the kitchen. I mostly ignored that, though the smells that eventually emitted from the same area were much easier to get lost in. That was fortunate, I suppose now (later), but at the time I scolded myself, so to speak, for not focusing myself on what I had to do. I think now that I was rather stupid to fixate so much on the issue. It may have better helped my nerves to briefly drop the topic and help set the big table in the hall or eventually help carry out the food, if the friar would let me. But I was fixating elsewhere at the time, and the idea didnÕt occur to me.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê It became clear that the confrontation, so to speak, would occur in the morning, over breakfast. My guess is that the Redwallers wanted to get it overwith so Zlaya could leave. IÕll also guess Zlaya was happy with the arrangementÑthe later the so-called conference waited, the greater of a chance somebeast would go outside and notice the soldiers. IÕm certain that if IÕd had to wait longer, I would have had a full-blown nervous breakdown. As it were, I wasnÕt able to take even slight advantage of the wonderful Redwall food. My stomach buzzed and my paws fidgeted in an extreme agitation far beyond my usual level. It was actually physically difficult to get food between the twoÑif my mind had actually cared anything about food at the time. In the end, I downed a small scone and one glass of juice. Hares at the table found that amount amusingly meager, while I felt it to be far too much.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was seated across the table from Zlaya and Zloyevich, and they still pretty much ignored me. Our seats were put at a slight separation from the rest of the diners. We were at the very end, which was also occupied by RedwallÕs badger Mother. Zlaya and Zloyevich spoke exclusively to each other. The badger contributed to the general chatter of the Redwallers, occasionally tilting her ear toward the two from Mtsensk (I was never from Mtsensk, even though I was in uniform). I was left to my own private, personal sphere of worry.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Well into the meal, the badger rose and rapped the table, vibrating it to get the attention of all present. Getting their eye contact, she announced lacklusterly, ÒWe have some visitors from the Mtsensk District.Ó A paw vaguely gestured toward the three of us. Zlaya and Zloyevich rose.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya nodded to the badger, frozenly polite. Zloyevich sniffed, not fully satisfied with the introduction. ÒYes, IÕm the Honorable Vsevolod Zloyevich, Advisor of Relations in the Mtsensk District. WeÕve come a long way to visit you, and it wasnÕt a trip we made simply because we fancied a trip. We have a distinguished motive for making this trek, and we hope it will positively impact the both of us, Mtsensk and Redwall. But IÕm not going to talk to you about it. ItÕs too important for even me. I might add with pleasure that you have the tremendous fortune of getting to see Empress Zlaya Trudnaya of the Mtsensk District. She in person shall announce the terms of our idea.Ó Even with his flowery language and beloved propaganda drip, ZloyevichÕs voice was disturbingly even. It was not quite a monotone; it was alive to be worrisome while unenthusiastic.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya nodded to Zloyevich, assuming she needed no further introduction. ÒYes,Ó she announced, her icy voice still more dynamic in just that single word. ÒBut first, my distinguished Court Composer is going to play for us. IÕm certain you know Mitya Shostak.ÓÊ Ê Ê Ê   
Ê Ê Ê Ê The Redwallers certainly did know me, and their distinguishable comments were mixed. A great many seemed absolutely ecstatic to get to hear me perform my own music. A large portion of others, however, expressed how theyÕd lost respect for me when they saw my uniform. Whatever the case, I took that as my cue to take the piano bench. I tottered over extremely nervously and seated myself next to a young volemaid who would serve as a page-turner. I remember looking back at the crowd at the table and thinking, This is probably the last time IÕll ever play for an audience of this size.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I immediately knew I needed to warm up with another piece first before embarking upon my actual purpose. Running a quick scale, I launched right into my Fanfare for Mtsensk and played all the way through it. The response afterwards was subdued; IÕm fairly certain that those who applauded did so only because that was polite. I gulped, but IÕd honestly expected such a reaction to a piece I personally reviled. Not letting any commentary come out of it, I quickly set up my manuscript and began the newer, significant piece. The RedwallersÕ pleasure at the switch was audible.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I played in an odd manner that day, not so much in sound but in mindset. Of course I was sickeningly nervousÑIÕve made that all too clearÑand I had to drive through that somehow. One might say I was distracted and very focused all at once. I wanted very much to turn around and look at the faces of all the creatures in the audienceÑI wanted to see their expressions, to see as they either understood my message or they didnÕt. But I couldnÕt look. That would have thrown me. I kept my eyes turned toward the music, though I donÕt think I needed to. In my distraction, I couldnÕt have been getting the notes from the page. They came from somewhere else, and I think I must have played more expressively than my usual style. The voleÕs smooth page turns made no interruption to my pattern. And I somehow got through the whole piece.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I suspect that if I had looked over at the table while I was playing, I would have seen Zlaya trying hard to restrain herself in her chair. As the Redwallers applauded extensively but nervously (nervous, I hope, for my message), she rose and walked toward the piano, slowly at first, calmly, but speeding up and intensifying. At about ten feet away, she lunged at me suddenly with a growl of deep rage. And she misjudged. The lid of the piano had been up to improve the sound, and she hit the bar holding it up. The bar dislodged, and in a split second the heavy lid fell and crushed ZlayaÕs right paw inside the piano. I jumped back in shock, the poor little vole ran with tears streaming down her face to her mother, and Zlaya produced such a sound of pained rage that could only be described as primordial.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya had no intention of giving up, and I think the staring eyes of the Redwallers set her into a sort of Bloodwrath. She tossed and yanked and jumped trying to free her paw, the other paw slashing at the air. If it hadnÕt been such a drastic situation, it might have been comical. But my fear wasnÕt comical, and ZlayaÕs horrible screaming wasnÕt either. Nor was her triumph over the piano a farce. In some enormous will to live and kill, Zlaya ripped her paw freeÑliterally. It had snapped at the wrist and was barely still attached to her forearmÑsurely so badly aggravated from her struggle and bleeding very profusely. I remember just how it looked despite the flailing, but IÕll spare you the details.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Then Zlaya came after me. She lunged at me with that horrible paw, that primitive scream, her teeth, fur, and eyes madly white. At first, I must confess, I was rooted to the spot, but another mostly wayward blow separated my spectacles from my face. Then I panicked. Squinting madly, I lifted the page-turnerÕs chair and put it in front of me, using it to fend Zlaya off, thrusting in pure defense. That is, until I say the blurred metallic glimmer of what could have only been a knife or dagger. The blade could have dismantled my chairÑand then myself. I swung the chair blindly with my entire strength, and I found grim fortune. There was a crack, and Zlaya slumped down holding her head with her good paw. I dropped the chair and tried to figure out if IÕd knocked her down.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Zlaya Trudnaya moved slightly, glaring with an inconceivable hate that was clear even in my nearsightedness. She seemed as if she was perhaps going to say something, but she ended up only coughing many times in a row, then silencing completely. IÕm not certain if it was blood loss, concussion, or her own insanity that killed her. 


	19. Chapter Eightteen

ÒBut at the same time, he showed courage and nobility. Despite his fear, I know how many people he helped, and how often he interceded for people.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑFlora Litvinova  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê A creature doesnÕt panic initially when heÕs traumatized; any sort of reaction is delayed. His mind kicks into shock instead, freezing his thoughts and his body. And often also, I think, freezing the scene that traumatized him, freezing it in more detail than any artist could produce. ThatÕs why I donÕt need much of an introduction here. I can recall the scene without even closing my eyesÑand with a shudder. The piano was the focal point of a circle, a ring of curious but cautious and certainly horrified Redwallers forming the perimeter. Inside that ring, the bench and page-turnerÕs chair were overturned. Spattered randomly about was a great deal of bloodÑIÕd imagine there was some actually inside the piano as well. IÕve never seen the Redwallers put the top up since. Next to the chair, practically underneath the piano, lay Zlaya TrudnayaÕs bloody carcass, her face still twisted in a final gesture of hatred. And I stood at the corner of the instrument, poised as if I were about to take a bow after a performanceÑrigid and head tilted downward. But I didnÕt think what I did warranted a bow.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê At first there was only silence in the entire hall, echoing more in itself than the muffled whispers that flickered through the Redwall masses after several minutes. The whispers also eventually gave way to bustling; the creatures almost pulsated in their jitters. (That impression of motion may have been only in my mindÑwithout my spectacles, I donÕt see distinct forms very well). I was able to notice the progression further, with the pulsating turning into general milling. The walls of the ring seemed to diffuse, but the area in which Zlaya and I remained was not crossed. It was as if there were physical walls around the area. And I couldnÕt get out.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was still rather dazed, and observing the above blurrily and passively. IÕm not certain how long into that state I was when the young volemaid returned to the circleÑthe first creature back in (perhaps her being there before let her back)Ñand tapped me timidly on the shoulder. ÒMister Shostak, sir?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I snapped out of my hypnotism, so to speak, with a jerk of my head. I was easily terrified myself at that point. ÒYes, yes?Ó I stuttered softly.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ÒYour spectacles, Mister Shostak.Ó The vole returned that necessity to me with a sense of awe about her. Awe and respect that I certainly didnÕt think I deserved. That air only added to my muddled confusion, making the situation more incomprehensible. But I was certainly glad to have my spectacles back, despite the delivery. I would have smiled at the vole if my face had wanted to respond to my mindÕs vague commands.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê With my eyes in focus again, and with my head able to move, I was able to actually look at the situation. To look is not necessarily to comprehend, you know, but itÕs a start. You canÕt comprehend without seeing something. As it were, my comprehension was numbed, but it took no sharpwit or seer to see that Zlaya was very dead. And that sight was certainly enough to trigger in my mind that I was responsible in some manner. I may not have run her through with a sword or beat her empty-pawed; the blow from the chair may not have been what finished her. But sheÕd reacted to my music, and that reaction killed her, so to speak. And so I was responsible for Zlaya TrudnayaÕs death.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê In the eyes of the Redwallers, I became a hero. That became more evident a bit later, you know, but the way I was treated even immediately was a hint. The cautious awe that the volemaid approached me with became a characteristic, so to speak, of all of the Redwallers around me. With the volemaidÕs approach, others wandered through the former circle (though, of course, avoiding ZlayaÕs body). Some nodded to me, others hinted at bows of respect. A couple of individuals passed by with a few mimed pawclaps. It was very odd, and I didnÕt particularly like it. YouÕll recall I despise thunderous applauseÑwell this was worse. Yes, itÕs respect, but I like respect better when I donÕt have to sit through it directly. I would have preferred even for the Redwallers to go right on to the victory feast (one of which they did have). Creatures get lost in the food at feasts, and therefore have less of their attention turned on the hero.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê There must be a true hero to have a heroÕs feast, you know. And I didnÕt consider myself a true hero then; I donÕt really now. Now I know I did something good beyond the average, but at the time I couldnÕt feel heroic. IÕd just essentially killed a creature, you know. She may have been a corrupt, murderous, totalitarian dictator, but IÕd still killed her and I donÕt see how that could ride easy on any creatureÕs conscience. The only reason the hero has no aria of regrets in Broken-Sword Warrior is because heÕs unconscious and wounded, you know, too hurt to sing. But IÕm real and uninjured and holding that red stain. A hero should not be stained.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê A hero should also not be considered such unless heÕs eliminated an entire problem. And as Redwallers paid silent respect to my sorry figure, I recalled the real problem. Zlaya hadnÕt held that title, so to speakÑany soulless assassin could have ended her. It was the armies of Mtsensk that were the serious issue, and it was for that issue that Zlaya had died. A side effect, so to speak.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê According to the Redwallers, a hero can definitely compose a song. But does song compose heroes? That was what I was waiting to see; rather, I wanted to know if my piece had been at all comprehensible. To be a hero by my music appealed to me far much more than to be a war hero or a duel victor. IÕm a musician, after all, and my values correspond. The action of the Redwallers, though, seemed a bit slow to have perhaps understood it; I had reached some clearer understanding by then to consider such a point. Finally moving off the spot IÕd been standing at the whole time, I approached a rather sturdy-looking shrew from behind and lightly tapped his shoulder. He turned around, his face also expressing awe and some disbelief. It wasnÕt an expression my voice warranted as I asked, ÒDid you, so to speak, understand? You know, did you understand?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I think the shrew acted the way he did in some reasoning that I simply happened to be the Great Mitya Shostak. His confusion was a touch exaggerated, I think. ÒIÕm afraid I donÕt know what you mean,Ó he told me.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê My heart faltered at his response; my initial reaction was to assume ÒnoÓ as the automatic answer. But I didnÕt want to make that assumption at the same time. ItÕs that odd self-contradiction that can be productive, and it made me keep asking. ÒYou know, my piece, the second one, that is, the second one. Did you understand it?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The shrew didnÕt even need to hesitate to answer me that time. ÒOh, of course,Ó he said. ÒClear as a crystal. IÕm going to get my rapier now and join my squad...Ó he trailed off before finally adding, Ò...if you donÕt mind, Mister Shostak.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Of course I didnÕt mind, but once again orders were disregarded, so to speak, in terms of actually saying that. I just waved the shrew on with a shrug. As he did with the piece, he interpreted my gesture correctly and continued on his way. I, on the other paw, did not want to participate nor be in close range to what would certainly be a climactic battle. I was a jumble of nerves already and I needed some time to myself. My initial thought was to go to the gatehouse, but its location on the grounds seemed like it could get swept over by contesting battle lines. And so I needed a new place to rest myself. Gazing around the hall, I took the first stairway I could find upward, then followed it all the way to the highest level of the abbey. I ended up in a small room, cluttered and dustyÑit looked very seldom used, if ever. It was perfect for my purposes at the time.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Though IÕve warned you IÕm horrible at such things, IÕm going to try and summarize the battle at Redwall for you based on other accounts. Zloyevich had run outside and alerted the Mtsensk troops to ZlayaÕs death. They started to mobilize, but the shock of having lost their leader slowed them down rather significantly. The Redwallers formed for battle inside the abbey walls, then poured out of gates into the advancing ranks of Mtsensk. Both sides were going for the element of surprise, but I think the RedwallersÕ element was stronger. The clash got down to paw-to-paw fighting, which intensified enough to make Zloyevich call retreat. A decent amount of MtsenskÕs army escaped destruction, but Redwall was the clear victor nevertheless.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I only saw the minute forms of creatures struggling from a window in my high-up room. The noise attracted my attention, and the noise was what indicated the ferocity of the fighting below. I could come up with a mental picture from it, you know, and it was a very unpleasant picture. And yet it was necessary to fightÑnecessary to end the immediate conflict, to expel later threat, to uphold RedwallÕs free reputation, and to make my own troubles worth something. Creatures died, but things would have been worse otherwise. It may not have ended; I and many others needed to see it end. And it was ending, finally. It was leaving some old residue, but mostly brand new history and present-tense ordeal overwith, too. I could send the past away, let out all I had against it, then wash that away too. I donÕt know what the Redwallers would have thought if they had seen their new hero crying like that. 


	20. Epilogue

ÒAnd besides, I reasoned this way: IÕve described many unpleasant and even tragic events, as well as several sinister and repulsive figures. My relations with them brought me much sorrow and suffering. And I thought perhaps my experience in this regard could also be of some use to people younger than I. Perhaps they wouldnÕt have the horrible disillusionment that I had to face, and would go through life better prepared, more hardened, than I was. And perhaps their lives would be free of the bitterness that has colored my life grey.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê And so here is the sad story in three acts with a prologue and epilogue. That is, the first act is my initial time at Mtsensk, the second my downfall and depression, the third the comeback at Redwall, and the prologue and epilogue are what they sound like. ItÕs easier for me to consider this epic, so to speak, as a piece of music with such divisions rather than as it was. One might say IÕm trying to cover up or emit certain truths and realities by taking that approach, but IÕm only taking it how it comes best to me. To image the thing in mental moving pictures is far too difficult. I consider everybeast involved that I knew personally and all I see is corpses. Add in soldiers and Redwallers and those numbers become mountainous. And to consider the spirits lost by citizens and artists oppressed, not to mention the actual works and ideas that never left the minds of the downtroddenÑwell, it fills me with a horrible depression. That thought alone keeps me rather sad, but to constantly run through and verbally retell the causes would leave me grieving all the time.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê And so to write the story as music is easier. It was still painful to do, but I did want to tell the story that way. ThatÕs what the Redwall-Mtsensk Suite isÑa compilation of relevant, emotional pieces I wrote during the actual event, as well as some new sections IÕve written only recently. They were bandages, so to speak, over wounds previously too raw for me to write about. But as thatÕs filled in, the piece tells pretty much the whole story. And thatÕs why this text manuscript is, I think, unnecessary. Music is fully interpretable, you know, when itÕs meant to be. But I forced myself and went on remembering to write this, even though some of the memories were difficult for me, certainly painful. Perhaps with reconsideration, though, I allowed myself to see more of what I missed by testing a new genre. You now have your explanation, and perhaps it wasnÕt completely futile for me to recall that grey, bitter period of my life again, now that the actual torture is over and only the pangs remain.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Except itÕs not completely over, though itÕs been several seasons since Zlaya died. I donÕt live at Redwall now, you know. It would be too overwhelming for me, to get applause like thunder whenever I played, to get awe when I simply showed up. I didnÕt want to be a part of this; I just wanted to be left alone, and that wouldnÕt work in Redwall. And I did not return to my old town, despite my longing to. ItÕs still part of the Mtsensk District, you know, weak under the rule of Vsevolod Zloyevich and on its way down, but still functional in some manner. To be left alone, I canÕt go close to there. I repeat it againÑall I ever wanted was to be left alone. ThatÕs impossible now, but Mossflower Woods can set me off enough to have space and time completely to myself. IÕm still prominent, and that wonÕt change, but I donÕt mind my music being well known. And at least I can create that music unhindered now, and I can hope that perhaps others will find something instructive in this simple tale. 


	21. Author's Note

ÒThe work of memory goes on and I often think about its meaning. Sometimes IÕm sure the meaning will not be understood by anyone. Other times IÕm more optimistic and think that IÕm guaranteed at least one reader who will know what itÕs aboutÑmyself.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê ItÕs impossible not to have questions about something once youÕve finished reading it. Even when the conflict is completely resolved, the plot mysteries deciphered, and the characters are living happily ever after, thereÕs going to be something left unanswered. IÕve deliberately left something open like that throughout this entire story, but IÕll take the time to answer that detail now. IÕm absolutely certain youÕre wondering by this point, ÒWho the heck is DSCH?Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê I mean, heÕs quoted at the beginning of almost every single chapter, including this note. And you may have noticed that the words of the title, Does Song Compose Heroes?, could be abbreviated as D.S.C.H. as well. So heÕs important, but who is he?  
Ê Ê Ê Ê IÕll get to that. But first I want to pose my own question, one you may not have considered: What is this story about?  
Ê Ê Ê Ê You know the answer to my question. But the answer is not, ÒItÕs about a dweeby little fox composer who becomes a hero.Ó ThatÕs just what it looks like. If my question was a question on Jeopardy!, youÕd get it right. ÒWhat is this story about?Ó Who is DSCH.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Well that doesnÕt tell you much. But since my question has been dealt with, now I can address yours. YouÕve probably figured out from the quotes that DSCH is a composer. That particular set of initials is, in fact, his musical signature. In the German notation system, the note S is what we know as E flat, and the note H is the same as our B. So that signature would be D-E flat-C-B. And those particular initials come from a German transliteration of a Russian name: Dimitrij Schostakowitsch.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê German transliterations are weird. The German version of his last name has five more letters in it than the actual Russian. The English transliteration has two more letters, but it still makes more sense than the German. If youÕve know something about twentieth century Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich, you probably immediately figured out that this story is about him. If youÕve never heard of him, IÕve probably thoroughly confused you, but you still probably figured out where I got my main characterÕs name. ÒMityaÓ is a diminutive for ÒDmitri,Ó and ÒShostakÓ is a rather obvious truncation.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê More in this story than just the main characterÕs name is based on stuff relating to Shostakovich. There are, of course, the quotes at the beginning of all the chapters (if Shostakovich didnÕt say the quote, itÕs someone else talking about him), as well as other quotes hidden in the story itself. Pretty much the entire plotÑthe whole story except chapters 15 through 18Ñis based somewhat on occurrences in ShostakovichÕs life. All of the pieces of music I refer to or describe correspond with actual Shostakovich pieces. All of the other characters are based on the names and/or personalities of people Shostakovich knew. IÕm going to cover all of that in this note, whether you care about said symbolism or not.  
  
A brief summary of the really important stuff in ShostakovichÕs life:  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Dmitri Shostakovich was born in 1906, a time in which Russia was in the middle of a revolutionÑnot a good situation, although it didnÕt affect him until significantly later. He had his first piano lesson at the age of nine, and by the time he was thirteen he entered the Petrograd Conservatory of Music. To graduate the Conservatory as a composer, he had to write a symphony. Said symphony premiered on May 12, 1926. Shostakovich was only nineteen years old, and the symphony skyrocketed him to international fame. He never slipped out of that spotlight.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê By 1936, Russia was Communist and Iosef Stalin was in charge. Stalin insisted that any art must reflect Communism and the Soviet Leader in a positive light. And, of course, he also had to like it personally. ShostakovichÕs opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District is about love, murder, and police oppression. Stalin didnÕt like it, and a January 28, 1936 article in the Soviet journal Pravda entitled ÒMuddle Instead of MusicÓ completely trashed the operaÑits music, its message, and its composer. Suddenly, Shostakovich was a Very Bad Guy, and much of his music was banned in the Soviet Union. His Fourth Symphony was even withdrawn from rehearsal.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Shostakovich was able to make up for the disaster of his opera by writing pieces in the style Stalin did approve of. He also wrote music for lyrics by Soviet propaganda poets, and he entered a contest to write the Soviet national anthem. During World War II, he served as a firefighter in defense of Leningrad. But he also kept writing the sort of music he wanted to write in secret. If that music was performed at all, it was in small, unknown halls, private homes, or outside of the Soviet Union. Within the USSR, secret musical circles met to study the music of Shostakovich and other banned composers.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê After Stalin died in 1953, Shostakovich felt a bit more freedom in his work, but he still managed to get in trouble on occasion. In 1960, he got in trouble for another piece, and he was also diagnosed with an incurable disease. Basically, he was broken. He actually joined the Communist Party that year to try and regain some favor. And then he wrote an autobiographical string quartet and nearly committed suicide upon its completion. One of his friends managed to save him and drag him out of his depression. His last piece was a viola sonata instead.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Shostakovich died in 1975. HeÕd written fifteen symphonies, fifteen string quartets, two full-length operas and several incomplete ones, several ballets, song cycles, film music, and piano pieces among other things. While his Soviet pieces still exist, the messages behind his personal music express his feelings against that system, anti-Semitism, war, oppression, and death. ShostakovichÕs music is starting to be more appreciated now than ever.  
  
Characters, places, and things:  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Mitya Shostak (MEET-yah SHOW-stahk): You already know who he represents and where he gets his name. But his personality (and many aspects of his appearance) are based on Shostakovich as well. Shostakovich was shortish and very skinny. His hair was always messy, his clothes were usually rumpled, and he wore very thick, round-framed glasses. He was very shy around crowdsÑhe hated the applause and attention he always gotÑbut he could be downright silly when with his friends. It was only with his friends when heÕd express his depression openly. He was rather physically uncoordinated, and was always fidgeting; he was very high strung. He spoke softly and nervously, compulsively repeating his sentences and inserting random phrases such as Òso to speak,Ó Òyou know,Ó Òas it were,Ó and Òone might say.Ó He could compose almost anywhere; he imaged his ideas in his mind completely before writing anything down. He wrote one measure at a time, going all the way down the staff before moving on to the next measure. And heÑoddlyÑdid much of his composition in purple ink. This is probably much more than you ever wanted to know about Shostakovich as a person.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Zlaya Trudnaya (ZLAI-yah TROOD-nai-yah): Zlaya represents StalinÑI neednÕt say much more than that. Stalin, I might add, was not killed, but rather died of a sickness that nobody bothered to call the doctor for. ÒZlayaÓ is the feminine form of the Russian word for Òevil,Ó and ÒtrudnayaÓ for Òdifficult.Ó ÒEvil DifficultÓ describes Stalin to meÑa mean person you canÕt reason with.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Marshal Raikh (RAIKH): Raikh is based on Soviet Marshal Mikhail Tukhachevsky. Tukhachevsky was a believer in Communism, and somewhat of a war-lover, but he didnÕt like Stalin at all. Tukhachevsky also supported the arts when Stalin said not to, and he was a good friend of ShostakovichÕs. He was eventually killed by a Stalinist agent. The name ÒRaikhÓ comes from Zanadia Raikh, the wife of one of ShostakovichÕs other friends.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Volklov Varzar (VOHL-klohv VAHR-zahr): Volklov is based on a conglomeration of ShostakovichÕs friends, writer Vsevolod Meyerhold, art historian Ivan Sollertinsky, and confidant Isaak Glikman in particular. These three all helped and supported Shostakovich through his troubles. However, Meyerhold was sent to Siberia and Sollertinsky died during a particularly harsh part of StalinÕs reign. The name ÒVolklovÓ comes from Solomon Volkov, the editor of ShostakovichÕs memoirs. I put in the extra ÒLÓ because it makes the name a palindrome, which is sort of neat. Also, ÒvolkÓ is Russian for Òwolf.Ó ÒVarzarÓ comes from Nina Varzar, ShostakovichÕs first wife.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Evgeny and Venyamin Sobareka (yehv-GAY-nee and venn-YAH-minn so-BAH-ray-kah): These two donÕt represent specific people. They instead represent the group of people who studied and played banned music in secret. Shostakovich did, however, know a poet named Evgeny and a violinist named Venyamin. In Russian, ÒsobakaÓ means ÒdogÓ and ÒrekaÓ means Òriver.Ó Hence you get ÒRiverdog,Ó an appropriate surname for two otters.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Vsevolod Zloyevich (VSYAY-voh-load ZLOY-yay-vich): In purpose, Zloyevich represents a great many of StalinÕs officials. More specifically he represents propaganda poet Evgeny Dolmatovsky, whose poems Shostakovich hated but had to write music for. Later he can represent any one of StalinÕs heirs. His personality, though, is based on that of a rather sinister and humorless teacher that I had. The name ÒZloyevichÓ is based on Òzloi,Ó the masculine form of the Russian word for Òevil.Ó The suffix Ò-vichÓ is a patronymic, so Zloyevich means, literally, ÒSon of Evil.Ó The name ÒVsevolodÓ has no real significance; I just thought it also sounded somewhat evil.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Bolt (BOLT): Bolt is there more than anything to get Mitya involved with Mtsensk and then to help increase his guilt. Perhaps heÕs general society in Russia; I didnÕt think much about what he represents. The name ÒBoltÓ comes from a Shostakovich ballet of the same name.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Nyevyerniy Ydyeal (nyay-VYAIR-nee eed-YALE): Mentioned in chapter 13 as ZlayaÕs predecessor, he represents Vladimir Lenin, who essentially set up the Soviet system. ÒNyevyerniy YdyealÓ translates to ÒIncorrect Ideal,Ó a term I used to describe The System at first. That term can also be used to describe LeninÕs Communism.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *All of those composers listed in chapter 13: Their names are also truncations of the names of famous Russian composers. Zunov (ZOO-nohv) = Gla/zunov/, Rimskor (RIHM-score) = /Rims/ky-/Kor/sakov, Sorgsky (SOARG-skee) = Mus/sorgsky/, Travin (TRAH-vinn) = S/travin/sky, and Ofiev (OH-fee-yehv) = Prok/ofiev/.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *The Mtsensk District (MITT-zehnsk): The Mtsensk District represents the Soviet Union. The name comes from ShostakovichÕs infamous opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *The System: This, clearly, is Communism under another name.  
  
Quotes and references:  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Almost all of the quotes at the beginnings of chapters are from Testimony, ShostakovichÕs memoirs. Most of the others are from personal accounts by Shostakovich and people who knew him, as compiled in Elizabeth WilsonÕs book Shostakovich: A Life Remembered and in Laurel FayÕs Shostakovich: A Life (what original titles...). The quote for the prologue is from Evgeny EvtushenkoÕs poem ÒA Second Birth;Ó it is, of course, a description of Shostakovich. Heading off chapter 8 is an excerpt from PravdaÕs stinging editorial ÒMuddle Instead of Music.Ó And as for quotes and references to actual events hidden in the text, take a look for where I inserted them.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Prologue: ÒBut tag me with my name and I stand out like a beast whoÕs lost his nose and is running around chasing it.Ó This is a reference to the plot of ShostakovichÕs opera The Nose, which is about a guy whose nose falls off and gets a higher rank than its owner.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 4: MityaÕs complaining about ZlayaÕs musical criticism corresponds to ShostakovichÕs similar criticism of StalinÕs lack of musical knowledge.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 5: ÒI hate those cliches; they seldom apply.Ó ThereÕs a quote in Testimony in which Shostakovich describes how he hates cliches.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The whole thing about the fish in the bathtub actually happened.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 7: Shostakovich actually heard the last act of The Nose in a dream, according to an account by his sister Zoya. The line about his being a copyist instead of a composer is a paraphrased quote.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 8: Zlaya declares Broken-Sword Warrior to be Òmuddle instead of music.Ó ThatÕs the title of StalinÕs article criticizing ShostakovichÕs opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 9: ÒYou know, IÕll continue to compose music, even if they cut off my paws and I have to hold the pen in my teeth.Ó Replace the word ÒpawsÓ with Òhands,Ó and you get a verbatim Shostakovich quote.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 10: ÒExtravagant talent.Ó Someone said that about Shostakovich; my viola teacher also said that about me (which means I should practice viola more instead of writing weird fanfics.)  
Ê Ê Ê Ê All of the examples of ZloyevichÕs propaganda poetry are modified quotes from Dolmatovsky. The originals, of course, exchange ÒZlayaÓ and ÒMtsenskÓ for ÒStalinÓ and ÒSoviet Land.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 11: ÒBut if youÕre too enthusiastic, youÕll confuse people.Ó My English teacher (the same one Zloyevich is based on) said this to me after I gave a report on Shostakovich. He gave me a B+. IÕm not happy with him.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 13: Raikh says she wishes she could play an instrument. Marshal Tukhachevsky told Shostakovich that he always wanted to play the violin.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 14: RaikhÕs last words are basically blasphemous to Zlaya. One other victim of StalinÕs sword cursed the Dictator to his face as he died.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 15: The first paragraph is a paraphrasing of a section of Testimony in which Shostakovich explains how itÕs useless to explain musical technicalities in memoirs. The last sentence of the paragraph is almost an exact quote.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê In the third paragraph, I relate to how Shostakovich hardly ever explained the symbolism in his music.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 16: Stalin and one of his officials once held a derogatory conversation about Shostakovich, who was sitting, presence forgotten, in the same room.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 17: ÒThis is the last time IÕll ever play for an audience this size.Ó This is an actual Shostakovich quote.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Chapter 18: The last paragraph, dealing with how war is bad, yet necessary and even beneficial, is parts of a Shostakovich quote stuck between my writing.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Epilogue: ÒAnd so here is the sad story in three acts with a prologue and epilogue.Ó Another actual quote, though Shostakovich said Òtwo actsÓ instead of Òthree.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The entire epilogue is drawn almost directly from the last three paragraphs of Testimony. You can make the comparisons yourself:  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê And that makes me even sadder. I was remembering my friends and all I saw was corpses, Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê mountains of corpses. IÕm not exaggerating, I mean mountains. And the picture filled me with a  
Ê Ê Ê Ê horrible depression. IÕm sad, IÕm grieving all the time. I tried to drop this unhappy undertaking  
Ê Ê Ê Ê several times and stop remembering things from my past, since I saw nothing good in it. I didnÕt  
Ê Ê Ê Ê want to remember at all.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê But for many reasons I went on. I forced myself and went on remembering, even though  
Ê Ê Ê Ê some of the memories were difficult for me. I decided that if this exercise helped me to see anew  
Ê Ê Ê Ê certain events and the destinies of certain people, then perhaps it wasnÕt completely futile and   
Ê Ê Ê Ê perhaps others would find something instructive in these simple tales.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê And besides, I reasoned this way: IÕve described many unpleasant and even tragic events,  
Ê Ê Ê Ê as well as several sinister and repulsive figures. My relations with them brought me much sorrow  
Ê Ê Ê Ê and suffering. And I thought perhaps my experience in this regard could also be of some use to  
Ê Ê Ê Ê people younger than I. Perhaps they wouldnÕt have the horrible disillusionment I had to face,  
Ê Ê Ê Ê and would go through life better prepared, more hardened, than I was. And perhaps their lives  
Ê Ê Ê Ê would be free of the bitterness that has colored my life grey.  
  
Music:  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *As Mitya plays for traveling troupes, Shostakovich used to play at cinemas. MityaÕs Òimprovised humor on old marching tunesÓ represents his improvisation at the cinemas. As a side note, one viewer at a cinema at which Shostakovich played complained to the manager that Òyour pianist must be drunk.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *MityaÕs fantasy on ZlayaÕs old fanfare doesnÕt actually represent any specific piece, though I picture it as sounding like the Festive Overture.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *MityaÕs Fanfare for Mtsensk represents ShostakovichÕs submission for the Soviet national anthem. For the record, he lost the contest.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *Broken-Sword Warrior, as youÕve probably figured out by now, represents Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *MityaÕs Redwall song cycles represent some of ShostakovichÕs private works.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *MityaÕs songs for Zloyevich represent Song of the Woods and The Sun Over Our Motherland, two propaganda choral works with lyrics by Dolmatovsky.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *The piece for Volklov represents pieces Shostakovich dedicated to his friends who died. His comment that the piece is Òin VolklovÕs styleÓ is a reference to a piece that Shostakovich supposedly heard in a dream that wasnÕt in his style at all, though he wrote it down anyway.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *MityaÕs piece in chapter 15 actually isnÕt representative of a real piece, since chapters 15 through 18 arenÕt based on things that actually happened. The Zlaya theme, though, could be parallel to the portrait of Stalin in the Tenth Symphony, and the repetitive growing on one theme occurs in the Seventh Symphony. The Òwalking themeÓ Mitya quotes from Sorgsky comes from the Promenade in MussorgskyÕs Pictures at an Exhibition. The reference to OfievÕs Òconversations in musicÓ infers the Duck and the BirdÕs quarrel in ProkofievÕs Peter and the Wolf. Ê Ê Ê Ê If you can imagine all of these pieces combined, thatÕs what this might sound like.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê *The Redwall-Mtsensk Suite also represents no single piece. It represents more the idea of combining parts of different pieces to tell the story of ShostakovichÕs life.  
  
Chapter 12:  
Ê Ê Ê Ê As of now, IÕve not talked about this chapter. ThatÕs because itÕs the most important chapter and deserves its own section. I made nothing up about the piece in this chapter. I simply described ShostakovichÕs Eighth String Quartet. The symbolism is all the same; in fact, the real symbolism is even deeper. I may have read too much into the first movement, but the MSHK motif in the story is exactly the same as the real DSCH motif, which is extremely evident throughout the entire piece. The second movement is actually about World War II, the firebombing of Dresden in particular (Shostakovich wrote the quartet while in Dresden, July 12-14, 1960). The Òscreamed melody over the dinÓ is Shostakovich quoting his own Second Piano Trio. The third movement is actually a dance on the grave, though itÕs Jews in concentration camps rather than woodlanders. Shostakovich was not Jewish (or even religious), but he had quite a few friends who were, and anti-Semitism was a very sore spot for him. The ÒcryingÓ is another self-quote, this time from the Second Cello Concerto. The fourth movement is supposed to be Soviet agents knocking at the door at 4:00 AM to take Shostakovich awayÑsomething he feared very much and was surprised that it never happened. The major-key segment mentioned is a quote from Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District; the fourth movement also quotes a revolutionary song entitled ÒTormented by Grievous Bondage.Ó The fifth movement is a melancholy conclusion, dying into silence at the very end. Shostakovich described his symbolism as Òclear as a primer.Ó  
Ê Ê Ê Ê Upon finishing the Eighth Quartet, Shostakovich bought a bunch of sleeping pills. He played the quartet on the piano for a friend, tearfully announcing that it was his last piece. Shostakovich always claimed that he could write one more piece. When someone once asked to perform his last quartet, Shostakovich said, ÒLast quartet? You know, I may still manage to write one more.Ó Therefore, ShostakovichÕs announcing that heÕd written his last wasnÕt good. The friend managed to confiscate the sleeping pills and told ShostakovichÕs son Maksim not to let his father out of his sight. After a few days, the threat of suicide had passed.  
Ê Ê Ê Ê The published dedication on the Eighth Quartet was Òto the victims of war and fascism.Ó Shostakovich considered himself to be such a person; he actually secretly dedicated the quartet to himself. It truly is an autobiographical quartet, in the circumstances in which it was written, in the numerous self-quotes, and in the Òstoryline.Ó IÕd argue that itÕs ShostakovichÕs greatest, most tragic work. If I inspired you with this story at all, IÕll hope youÕll go and listen to some of ShostakovichÕs music. But if you were going to listen to one of his pieces and one piece only, listen to the Eighth Quartet, opus 110. ItÕll tell you much more about Shostakovich than I have in these pages, you know.  
  
Ê Ê Ê Ê A final note: Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich died on the Ninth of August, 1975. I finished writing this story on the Ninth of August, 2000Ñthe twenty-fifth anniversary of his death.   
  
  
  
  
Novice  
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